


Lessons

by mortalitasi



Series: analogeies [1]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2441135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's courage, of a sort, in facing a lie, and truth is said to set one free. But freedom comes with a price. </p><p>(The main, chaptered storyline of Αναλογείες).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Story goes like this. Best friends make OCs together. OCs take over our brains. I write pages upon pages about them, she draws 'em. Ships emerge (very surprising). It's twisted and it's time to share it, and we hope you come to love our girls and our canon as much as we do. Sidenote: both of them are ghouls. Peace. ♥
> 
> (and yes, Uta's 'true self' will become more evident as the story goes on).

I’VE LEARNED THAT YOU CANNOT MAKE SOMEONE LOVE YOU.  
ALL YOU CAN DO IS BE SOMEONE WHO CAN BE LOVED.  
THE REST IS UP TO THEM.

…

 

_She cries herself to sleep for the first four weeks._

_Sometimes she pounds at the door or the mirror, but neither ever give. She becomes sick of looking at herself. When she starts peeling the skin from her hands and bruising her head against the wall, they come in to stop her, bind her up in a jacket with no open sleeves, so she cries still, but restrained. She rolls from side to side like the bugs she used to collect when she was still with Mom, after the rain would come and leave the garden smelling like wet earth and Mom’s favorite flowers. She misses Mom. They call her ‘Sixteen’ here, and she’s tried to tell them—“My name is Ren,” she’d said once, and they’d rewarded her with no dinner. They hadn’t turned the lights off that night._

_She knows they’re watching her from behind the mirror. When they walk her out of this room she catches glimpses of the panels and computers they observe to keep track of her—there are people in white coats everywhere, and they’re all nameless. Like her._

_The lights hurt her eyes. She pulls her shirt over her head and presses her face to her knees to try and block it out. Why do they need to keep them on? Why can’t they let her sleep? Why does she have to be Sixteen? Why can’t she just be Ren? They don’t want Ren. She wants Ren. Does she? She should. Maybe Ren is dead. How can she get Ren back? She remembers things, like the nightstand, or the powdery scent of Mom’s perfume, and wonders why she can’t have them anymore. This is all her fault. If she’d just listened and been silent this would never have happened. She could still be with Mom._

_She has to pull her head out of her shirt when she hears the door open. It’s the tall lady with the brown hair and the glasses._

_“Get up,” the lady says. She listens, despite the shaking of her knees. “We’re going across the hall.”_

_No. ‘Across the hall’ means needles and no clothes and people in scary, bad-smelling, bad-tasting gloves. She doesn’t want to go there. Hasn’t she been obedient?_

_“Don’t take me there,” she begs. She should know by now that it doesn’t help._

_The lady sighs and makes a vague gesture, and the men with the thick uniforms and scratchy hands bustle into the room. It always takes more than two of them to take her. Her nails dig into the padding of the floor when they haul her away, and she tries to hold on, she does, she holds on until one of them tears at the cuticle and blood spatters the white floor and the lady makes an exasperated comment about having to clean it up later. The first man grabs her by the hair when she starts to cry, but they don’t care._

_They never do._

…

 

He wakes up when she starts murmuring.

Ren likes sleeping on the left side of the bed, and he has a hard time understanding how someone so tall can curl up so small. She sandwiches her hands between her chest and legs and has this funny habit where she leans her head forward enough to have her bangs cover her eyes entirely. She hardly moves during sleep, except to scoot over and snuggle into his side—and that only occasionally. Uta sits up and rubs at his eyes. He’s thirsty. He’s ready to do something about that until something she says catches his attention.

“Please don’t make me go,” she mutters, clenching her hands so tight he can see the white of her knuckles even in the dark. “Please don’t make me go. Please don’t…”

He debates about waking her up. Decides against it. It doesn’t last for long. His nose twitches and suspicion takes root—he shuffles back over to her and stares down at her hands, and feels shock pool in his stomach at the realization that she’s dug her fingers hard enough into her own palms to make them bleed. Well, that was unexpected. He takes her by the shoulders, gently, and shakes.

“Ren,” he says quietly. She frowns, brows scrunching together, but doesn’t open her eyes. He wipes the bangs from her face, smoothing them back off her sweaty skin. His voice is a little louder next time. Wake up, already. “Ren.”

When she _does_ wake up, it’s suddenly—she bolts back and hits the headboard, jerking from his touch like it hurts her. He catches a glimpse of her pink boxer shorts under the fall of her oversized shirt before she lifts her hands and fists them in her hair, leaving smears of red along the bedsheets and clothes. Her eyes are wide, boggling, scarlet on black, and he has to stop her when she starts scratching at her scalp. She’s strong, but so is he. His fingers tighten around her wrists.

“Take them out,” she gasps. Their legs tangle. He has to sit closer in an attempt to not be flung off the bed. “I’m so hungry. Please let me eat. I’m a good girl, I promise to be a good girl!”

“Ren, stop—you’re going to hurt yourself,” he says, but it may as well have fallen on deaf ears. She begins to cry, deep, wrenching sobs that start in her chest. It makes her sound like she’s dying. Ugh.

“I’m sorry,” is all she says, over and over. Her pupils are pinpricks, barely visible. Her grip grows lax, as though she’s given up fighting against whatever she thinks is there instead of him. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be better next time.”

He holds her face, careful to be soft, but wanting to be forceful, and feels a twitch of irritation when she flinches anyway. “Where are you?”

She squeezes her eyes shut—a child trying not to look at something upsetting. “Two times two is four. Two times three is six. Two times four is eight. Two times five is—is ten. Two times six is twelve. Twelve, twelve. Two times seven is fourteen. Mom says I should listen to the doctor. Sing the tables when you’re scared, Ren. Two times eight is sixteen.”

It goes on like that for however long it takes her to reach twelve times twelve. By then he’s crawled in next to her and resigned himself to just carding his fingers through her hair. May as well keep it up. He has no idea when she'll come back to herself, and it'd be troublesome for her to see him just sitting there. A good boyfriend would care, so he's going to act like he does. He's good at that.

She just stays there, mumbling, keeping her head down, reciting multiplication like it’s the only act in the world that can ground her. Maybe it is. Twenty-four, she says at last, and then she doesn’t speak for the next fifteen minutes. Just when he thinks she’s fallen asleep again and he’s ready to drop off too, her hands twitch and she stirs. He catches her eyes in time to see the black of the kakugan fade away to her customary brown. When she lifts her gaze to his, she’s looking _at_ him. Not through him. About time.

“Uta?” she whispers. He squeezes back. “I… I had a really bad dream.”

“I know,” he says, for lack of something better. “Are you okay?”

She breaks eye contact, ashamed. She fidgets. “It hasn’t happened in a while—it… used to come around more often before I met you. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I—I didn’t want… I don’t want you to see me like that. I don’t want people to know I’m crazy.”

“If you are, then I am too,” he declares, and she jerks back in surprise. “I don’t care.”

There’s a long pause. He knows it’s because she’s trying to decide whether she’s going to talk. She does that a lot. Sometimes she forgets people can’t read her mind, or that she actually has to speak to inform others of what she’d like to do. She picks at the hem of her shirt—his shirt—whatever—bites her lip once or twice, and blinks plenty. He’s good at listening, and good at waiting. An artist has to be patient. He watches her while he waits, taking in her features for the hundredth time. She’s very expressive without meaning to be. Stare long enough at her infamous poker-face and you will find traces of tells she has no idea she possesses, like the way she purses her mouth ever so slightly when she’s thinking about something unpleasant, or the very unobtrusive slant of her brows when she concentrates. All signs that say a thousand words, betray a thousand things.

Finally she takes a deep breath and looks up again. Her cheeks are streaked with the drying proof of her tears. She's prettier when she cries _—_ she should do it more often. He returns his attention to Ren.

Her expression is a combination of hopeful and guarded. She makes that possible, somehow. “You—you don’t want to go?”

“Go _where_?”

“Away from me…”

She starts when he flicks her forehead with his index. “This is the last place I’d be if I wanted to be away from you,” he explains, and then reaches out to hold her bangs out of her eyes. She’s usually pretty pale, but in the light from the city outside, she almost seems to glow. “You really need to trim these.”

Indecision is plain on her face before she blurts, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Go,” she says, and he smiles at her.

“Didn’t I just swear to you I wouldn’t?”

He barely has leeway to react when she launches herself at him. Her arms go around his middle and she hugs him hard enough to make it a little difficult to breathe. What an inconvenience. He returns the gesture, laughing some when her lashes tickle at the crook of his neck. She smells warm, like the coconut shampoo she loves using, and of a slight hint of mint. She inches up a heartbeat later to leave a shy kiss on his cheek. How sweet.

“Good,” she says, very delayed. “I’d like you to stay. For a long time. Forever.”

“You’d probably get sick of me if I stayed _forever_ ,” Uta objects. “I’m stuck with me and I get sick of me sometimes.”

“It’s alright. I can be _not_ sick enough for both of us.”

He shuts his eyes when she presses her brow to his. Their noses brush. “Whatever the lady says.”

She giggles, the way she always does when he calls her that.

This is nearly too easy.

 

…

 

_Nori is thankful Ren waits to ask her question until after Shuu has left._

_She’s looking toward the door—sitting on the couch, as she usually does, knees drawn up to her body, wearing baggy clothing that sags around her like a second, too-large skin. She has that odd curious look on her face that she acquires whenever she encounters something she can’t understand… and there are a lot of those things._

_“So, he’s your husband?”_

_Coffee sprays all over the kitchen table as Nori chokes in surprise._

_“What?! No! What gave you that idea?”_

_“He isn’t?” Ren says, tilting her head thoughtfully at Nori, who know has coffee dripping all down her front. Great. “Why not?”_

_“Because!” Nori exclaims, as though that’s a completely adequate answer. “Because we’ve only had—uh, we’ve only been hanging out together for three weeks. You can’t even call him my_ boyfriend _!”_

_Another head tilt, this time in the opposite direction. “A boy who’s your friend? I thought friends didn’t kiss.”_

_Nori sets her now half-empty mug on the table, wringing her hand to get rid of the excess coffee. “Well, sometimes they do! I mean, no, they don’t—a boyfriend isn’t a_ friend _, he is, but he isn’t. You—it’s complicated.”_

 _“It_ sounds _complicated,” Ren agrees. Her toes wiggle under the hem of her sweatpants. That happens when she’s thinking. “So why isn’t he your husband? You didn’t answer.”_

_Like a dog with a bone, God. “You have to be married to the guy to call him your husband.”_

_More confusion. A little wrinkle forms between Ren’s brows. She must be expending a lot of effort. “But you’re not related, and you love each other, so doesn’t that make you husband and wife?”_

_“Absolutely not,” Nori states, and then realizes what Ren said in its entirety. “And who said anything about_ love?! _”_

_“…Don’t people who do the dating have to love one another?”_

_The dating._

The dating.

 _“Sometimes, but most of the time it’s done just to get to know the other person better. That’s where we are. I’m giving him a chance. We’re not married, we’re not in love, and we’re_ definitely not friends. _”_

_Ren appraises her with those ridiculously large doe-eyes. The focused frown still hasn’t faded away. “Doesn’t giving him a chance imply you at least somewhat like him? And why is it called the dating? Are number-charts involved? Calen—calendars?”_

_“I need to change,” Nori says weakly._

_It's going to be a long day._

…

 

“Where are you at?”

Ren looks up at the street sign two yards away. The cellphone is so small, she feels like she’s going to drop it half the time, and if she grips it too tight then it’s going to slip right out of her hand. She knows. She’s tried. “A little outside the 4th.”

Nori sounds disbelieving. “Holy shit—why don’t you just take a taxi?”

“I like to walk,” Ren says, shrugging even though her friend can’t see her. “I couldn’t remember your number, but the name-list saved me.”

“Yeah, contact logs are pretty nice,” Nori agrees. Ren can hear her turning on the sink. Probably washing coffee mugs. Nori has a lot of them, and in very nice designs. Ren’s favorite is, predictably enough, very pink, patterned with the little animals called hamsters, and she bought it for herself when they went out shopping a long time ago. She always drinks her coffee in that one, and Nori always has it washed and ready for her. It makes Ren happier than she thought she could ever be.

“So when you get here we can get out and do that wardrobe update you are _sorely_ in need of,” Nori continues, and the clink of fired-clay mugs is clear over the connection. “I want to get you a good pair of black pants. You should show off your legs more. God knows they’re long enough.”

“That will be fun,” Ren says. She’s never known much about what sorts of clothes match well with each other, so more often than not she listens to Nori’s sense about things—it works out well, despite the fact that she keeps a lot of things she knows Nori would love nothing more than to throw in a trashbin. Nori seems to have a particular dislike for the maroon sweater Ren likes sleeping in. Maybe it has to do with the color? Or perhaps the cat knitted into the front? It looks fine to Ren, but she’s come to realize almost everything does.

“You’ll look great,” Nori assures her.

Ren nods, an involuntary reflex. “I trust you.”

Nori laughs—it’s a bright and earnest laugh, and Ren loves listening to it. “You marshmallow.”

“I think my call is ending,” Ren warns. “The man in the phone is saying my credit is running out.”

“Put it on the list of things we have to get for you,” her friend replies. She nods for the second time. “See you in a bit.”

Ren smiles to herself. She feels like something cheerful and good is fizzing in her chest. “Mm. See you.”

 

…

 

_She discovered the girl four days ago._

_Nori would call her a woman, but the panicky gleam in her eyes reminds Nori of a terrified child—the stray doesn’t look a day over twenty-four, maybe even younger, and she’s the tallest person Nori has ever seen. She had no idea just how tall until the girl crawled from her hiding spot in the alleyway and supported herself on a creaky dumpster. She hasn’t said a word in ninety-six hours, and as far as Nori knows, hasn’t slept either. She’s rail-thin, bony as a baby bird, and just as quiet. She spent three days outside._

_Nori had only noticed her when she’d dropped her lighter. It’d gone bouncing into some dark corner that had been a total bitch to scope out. Somewhere between groping around through trash bags for her favorite zippo and trying not to trip over the uneven pavement, she’d noticed a foot sticking out from behind the dumpster leaned against the wall. Nori’s no stranger to dead bodies. She was going to let it be until the foot twitched and withdrew slowly. She’d rounded the dumpster’s corner, only to find—well, the girl._

_They’d stared at each other for a good while, and when Nori had reached down to scoop the lighter off the ground, the girl had flinched and backed up into the wall, bare feet scrabbling against the concrete. She’d been filthy, hair tangled, clothes ripped—she looked homeless. Nori had been so engrossed with feeling shocked at the new knowledge that someone could be_ so dirty _that it’d taken her a good ten seconds or so to realize that the same shock had revealed a very important thing about the dumpster girl._

_Emaciated, yes, gaunt-faced, yes… and looking at Nori with the biggest set of ghoul eyes possible to possess. It’s been four interesting days since then. She’d never thought that having had experience with feline strays in her childhood would have prepared her for gaining the trust of a strange, starved ghoul she found half-dead in a dumpster heap. She does her chores around the visitor, studies around her, makes coffee around her—not ignoring, just… not minding. It worked with all the cats she’s ever known, and it seems to be working now too._

_Sometimes she’ll turn around to find the girl’s inched a little closer, though her looking usually sends the girl shying away again. She starts and finishes her chemistry homework while the girl watches, and goes about like she can’t feel the attentive gaze on her back._

_On the start of the sixth day, she finds the girl tentatively exploring something other than the living room. It’s just as well—Nori doesn’t want to push her, but it’s getting hard to bear the smell of unwashed-in-God-knows-how-long person. When the girl goes scuttling back to the living room in trepidation (she likes hiding behind the couch), Nori does some moving about. She drags some spare towels out of her cabinet, lays them on the bathroom counter, sets out a change of the biggest and baggiest pajamas she has available, and then leaves the door conspicuously open. She retreats to her room, sits down, and waits._

_It takes about forty five minutes for the girl to come back into the hallway. Nori peeks out when the girl turns her back and cautiously edges into the bathroom. Her feet leave dark tracks on the tiles._

_Nori’s going to have to do some heavy-duty mopping this week, she’s thinking while the girl curiously pokes the towels with a finger. Nori has never been so grateful that the bathroom is opposite her room. As she looks on, her decidedly very odd guest touches almost everything in the bathroom—like she can’t get enough of the textures. She stops when she encounters a loofa, and spends nearly fifteen minutes stretching it and squishing it and contorting it into all sorts of shapes._

_Then she moves into the actual shower booth. She runs her hands over the dials, and squints at the writing. In a rather bold instance of inquisition, she turns one of them to the left. That’s the cold water. Nori braces, preparing for a jump, or a startled shriek, squeezing her eyes shut, but it never comes. When she looks across the hall again, she sees the girl standing at full height, face turned upward into the spray, her expression full of wonderment and awe. Her ratty shirt is half-soaked through, now, and there are goosebumps rising on her arms and shoulders—and she doesn’t seem to mind. She just blinks, and reaches a hand out to touch the shower nozzle, like she can’t quite believe it’s there._

_A flicker of a greater emotion passes over her then, and her brows scrunch together. Her lips pull down. Nori can see her mouth trembling clearly in profile. She lifts her other hand, opening her palms to the gentle wash of the water, and it makes her look like she’s praying. Her solemn expression holds for just one second longer, and then it falls apart, turning into an odd hybrid of something caught in the middle of silent, euphoric laughter and total devastation._

_Her straggled hair flops down her back in a sodden mess, and as Nori watches, the nameless girl lowers her head and begins to cry._

_.._

“Which one do you like best?”

Nori only asks as a formality. She already knows exactly which makeup palette Ren is going to pick. Her friend pauses, pursing her lips some, and then, very hesitantly, points at a small selection of pastel eye-shadows. There’s a pretty, soft yellow, a powder cornflower-blue, a light mint green, and, of course, one soft pink that looks like it’d be right at home on a baby girl’s room walls. Ren has to bend down a little to be at level with Nori, and she’s looking nice today in a simple white shirt and high-waisted jeans. Nori takes credit for that one.

Going out used to be a task full of trepidation for her, but it’s more of a pleasure now than an exercise in fear for her. It’s nice. Nori likes seeing her at home in her own skin instead of constantly looking over her shoulder and expecting a threat to pop out around every corner. Stores were the last hurdle they overcame together—Ren can now stand in the middle of a fairly crowded beauty boutique without her hands shaking, and even have some fun.

“Is that alright?” Ren says quietly, and Nori laughs.

“’Course it is, babe. Your choice. You’re real easy to please, you know that?”

Ren shuffles her feet bashfully. “No. Just lucky. Very lucky.”

Nori plucks the tester palette from its display shelf and turns around to find an employee. “Let’s show this to the girl at the counter and get out of here, yeah?”

Ren grins. The dimples in her cheeks show clearly. “Yes, let’s.”

 

…

 

_This meat smells familiar. She doesn’t know why._

_She can always tell the difference when they give her ghoul instead of human. It was difficult to stomach in the beginning, but like everything else, she’s adapted to taking it in her stride. She has to. There is no other alternative. She’s sitting in the metal chair bolted in the middle of the room that lies across the hall from her own containment cell. They haven’t tied the restraints at her hands. Yet. The feet are already bound. There’s no getting away from this. The lady with the glasses is crouched in front of her, holding the paper plate which holds the cut of meat they’re presenting her with. The tails of her white coat are brushing the floor. Ren’s butt is cold. She wishes her gown were thicker._

_The lady is wearing a wonderful pair of black flats. Ren—Sixteen would like a pair. Maybe, one day, if she’s good enough, she’ll get some shoes. That would be great._

_“What’s the matter? Aren’t you hungry?”_

_She sucks in a sharp breath. She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to answer. “I… what is this?”_

_“Your lunch,” the lady says without preamble._

_“It—smells… weird.”_

_The lady smiles slowly. It’s scary. “That’s never stopped you before.”_

_“I don’t want to.”_

_“Now, now, don’t be boisterous. If you don’t eat, we’ll have to let you go without for a month. You don’t want that, do you?”_

_Sixteen—no, Ren—the frightened little girl—gulps. “Please, don’t.”_

_“That’s what I thought,” the lady laughs. The smile is back. “Come on. Take a bite.”_

_Ren backs away until her head hits the chair when the lady waves the plate under her nose. “What is it?” she repeats._

_The lady follows suit. “Your lunch.”_

_“It’s not the same. It isn’t the same. Where is it from? Who is it?”_

_The lady’s smile fades. Ren can see her own reflection in the glasses. “Monsters don’t have the right to questions. Eat, before I lose my patience.”_

_“Don’t make me._ Please _.”_

 _“This isn’t a negotiation,” the lady snaps. That’s a big word. Ren doesn’t understand what it means. “You_ will _eat.”_

_“I want Mom,” Ren whispers, and then her voice gains volume. Her eyes burn. “Where is Mom?”_

_The lady shakes the plate. The meat slides to the side, smearing red on the paper. “Right here. She’s right here. Don’t you worry.”_

_Ren shrieks the next time the plate comes close. “No! Please don’t! I don’t want it!”_

_The lady sighs, the way she did when Ren didn’t come unquestioningly the last time they ran a series of tests. “Tie her down,” she says tiredly, and the men standing in the corners of the room come nearer. One of them pins Ren’s shoulders to the chair while the other draws the straps tight around her small wrists, stretching the belts to their last holes. The leather squeaks as he does it. Her fingers stretch and strain, but it’s no use. She can’t get out. She needs to get out._ She can’t get out.

_The men step back. Their job is done._

_She turns her head from side to side when the lady jabs the meat at her. She watches out of the corner of her eye as the lady reaches into a coat pocket and draws out a pair of gloves. The material snaps against the lady’s skin as she slides them on._

_“I was hoping to not have to do this. Ugh. Gross.”_

_Ren clenches her mouth shut so hard her lips and teeth ache, but she doesn’t let up. She can’t. The lady is so close now that she would only have to jerk her head forward for their faces to connect. That’s another thing she can’t do. She’s never hit any of them purposefully, but the times it’s happened accidentally the punishment was something Ren doesn’t want to remember—and she can’t forget. The lady presses the meat against her mouth and she writhes in the chair, trying to get away. Not this._

_She thinks the lady is about to give up, but then—the lady moves in and closes her nose, clamping it between two fingers. Ren reflexively attempts to breathe through her nostrils, and it doesn’t work. She squirms and wriggles as far as the restraints will allow her to, a desperate, last-ditch effort at getting away. The leather chafes against her ankles and wrists. She can feel them being rubbed raw. It’s a small price to pay. Small. So, so small._

_The pressure in her lungs builds. Her throat starts to sting, and as black spots break out across her vision, the panic rises ever higher. She wants to breathe, she wants to badly, but she refuses to. She’s going to kill herself before she lets this happen. She can’t do this to Mom. Even if she collapses in on herself, she won’t let it happen. Her lungs are searing with the exertion of her refusal. Stop, she pleads with herself. Stop. You don’t have to breathe. Stop now._

_Tears stream down her cheeks. I’m sorry, she thinks._

_Her mouth opens and she gasps, breaking her promise. The lady shoves the meat into her mouth. They can’t make me chew, she cries in her head. They_ can’t _._

_The sound of her teeth grinding against each other is plainly audible in the quiet and still room._

_“Tch. Feeling rowdy today, are you?”_

_The lady grabs her bottom jaw in one hand and yanks it down, then shoves it up. It’s too strong for her to resist. The meat crunches, flooding her tongue with its taste. She cries harder as blood drips from her chin._

_“Swallow,” the lady commands. Ren shakes her head as much as she can, but all it gets her is a forceful jolt. “_ Swallow _.”_

_Bile froths at the back of her gullet. She does as she’s told. The lady replicates her previous actions. It’s over in three bites, and when she’s free she wails, throwing herself forward—the lady just escapes the chomp she aims at an arm. She doesn’t know what she’s feeling. Angry, sad, furious, frantic. It all seems the same._

_“Good girl,” the lady says. The tone of her voice is soft and soothing, but her words are poison. “Now we’ll be able to see if consumption of genetically-related material will make any difference with that lovely little exoskeleton you’re growing. You got that, Goro? Write the date down, please.”_

_Ren doesn’t understand. She probably never will. The screams ring in her head, like too much noise echoing in a hollow shell._

_The lady stands and folds the plate, and proceeds to take off her gloves. She passes them off to the man at her right. “So noisy! And my mother wonders why I don’t want children.”_

_Ren isn’t listening._

I’m sorry, Mom. Please forgive me.

 

…

 

“It’s gotten really long.”

Ren can’t look over her shoulder, but Nori has a feeling she’s smiling. “I know. I really like it. Mom used to do this when I was small.”

Nori draws the brush down the length of Ren’s lovely hair again, pleased with the fact that there are absolutely no tangles left. The best thing about straight hair is the minimal amount of effort needed. They’re sitting on her bed, accessories strewn all around them, and Lord of the Rings is playing on the TV set against the wall. A perfect girls’ night.

“Mine just had a bit of an episode when I bleached it for the first time.”

“It’s pretty,” Ren comments helpfully.

“I know,” Nori says, and starts partitioning Ren’s hair into three. It’s easy to do so—her hair is straight and fine despite the thickness and weight of it, and that’s pretty amazing considering the marginal care Ren affords it.

She brushes it diligently, but there’s not much more beyond that. Ren doesn’t seem to realize just how appealing she is. In fact, she’s probably outright blind to it. She has no developed concept of how others view her. It’s an odd dissonance Nori has had to get used to. Nori’s always been aware of anything and everything on or about her. She’s known since early on she was pretty damn attractive, and it’s been such a part of her life that it’s shocking to realize that someone could have such a weak impression about themselves and what they do to people. It’s most likely something about Ren that’s never going to go away—but she can help it along as much as she can.

The last thing Nori would call her is a child… though it’s not very challenging to see the similarities in some of the ways Ren acts. She’s actually wiggling her toes right now and humming, something she does quite a bit. She’s so large and gangly—and she has the smallest presence Nori has felt from anyone.

“That feels good,” Ren says when Nori starts braiding her hair. It’s fast work, and Nori has experience drawn from an adolescence full of donning more hairstyles than anyone could imagine.

“This is going to _look_ good,” Nori replies. Over, under, across, rinse and repeat. The ends of it are rather even, so the braid ties up wonderfully. She finishes it off with the twist of a hairband and then sits back to appreciate her handiwork. “See? Perfect.”

Ren turns around, the braid swishing between her shoulders, and tries to get a good look at it. Nori ducks her on the chin.

“Don’t break your neck, babe. It’s just a braid.”

“I’ve never had one! I mean, I might have, but I don’t remember. This is different. I understand now. I love it. Thank you.”

“Like I said,” Nori interrupts her, holding up one meticulously manicured hand. “Just a braid. Now, what color are you going to paint those nails of yours?”

“I was thinking—”

“—don’t say pink. _Please_.”

“But—”

“—change is good. I have a lot of nail polish. Why don’t you go for a red? Or maybe a burgundy on the wine side?”

Ren pouts and wiggles her toes again. “I trust you. Pick one for me.”

“Heh. Now you’re talking.”

 

…

 

_The girl is in the same spot every afternoon when Nori comes back from class._

_She sits next to the couch with her back to the wall facing the door, crosses her legs, rests her hands in her lap, and waits. It’s kind of like having a dog, except—no dog. She gained weight like lightning, at least a kilo every other week, and it’s been almost a month and a half since Nori found her in that dingy alleyway. Nori often forgets she’s even in the apartment. Life with the one she calls her visitor has certainly been colorful, to say the least. Her visitor has gotten braver about touching things, though it usually happens when Nori isn’t looking—or when she thinks Nori isn’t looking._

_There have been a few times when Nori’s come upon her staring at the apartment paintings or gazing intently at the statues scattered around the place. They apparently fascinate her, is Nori’s best guess, and she doesn’t seem scared by them—just interested. She has a strange way of going about observing things she wants to understand. The gargoyle sculpture by the kitchen entrance holds a particular mystique. She’s looked at it from all angles. Nori’s seen her sit upside down on the couch to get a better view of it. How that would help, Nori doesn’t know, but it seems to keep her visitor busy, so she doesn’t think much about it._

_She yawns as she jiggles the key into her apartment door’s lock. Her classmates were markedly insufferable today, and the textbooks in her tote are making her shoulder hurt. She’s completely ready to settle in with a cup of coffee and her sketchbook and to welcome the long weekend with sleep and more sleep._

_The lights in the apartment are on—she has to keep them that way because she’s learned that her visitor is at ease with lurking around in the dark. Nori’s told her before that she doesn’t mind if the lights go on, but it hasn’t taken any effect. The visitor understands her: they’ve communicated before in little gestures, and Nori’s instructions, if there ever are any, are followed to the letter._

_She came in once to find her visitor asleep on the couch, burrowed under a pile of blankets like a rabbit in a warren. It had been the third time she’d ever seen the other ghoul asleep. It wasn’t just Nori’s imagination that her visitor got a little more easygoing and relaxed after that had happened. Sleeping around someone means you’re at their mercy. It’s a sign of trust. Nori’s glad to have earned it._

_The door clicks shut behind her, and she relinquishes her tote to the chair nearest to her. She’s shrugging off her jacket when she notices she can’t see her visitor anywhere. She looks around, making sure she didn’t miss anything, and then a bump rises from behind the couch. It’s her visitor’s head. First come the brows, then the eyes, the nose—and it stops. Her hands are on the back of the couch. She looks like a kid, hiding there, probably kneeled on the floor. Nori puts her keys down slowly on the coffee table. Her visitor’s eyes follow every movement. When things are finally still again, the girl behind the couch blinks._

_“Hi.”_

_It takes Nori a second to realize what just happened—to process the fact that so miniscule a voice could come from such a big person—and then, she can’t help it. She beams at her visitor, smiling wide, and answers in kind._

_“Hi there.”_

_…_

Ren trips on her second round about the coffee table, and Nori has to dive in to catch her before any forehead-to-wood contact can happen.

“Steady on,” she says as Ren straightens shakily in brand new pair of shiny black pumps.

“How do you do this?” Ren asks her and grips Nori’s shoulder. She looks slightly scared. “I’ve seen you _fight_ in your boots—how?”

“It does take a certain kind of talent,” Nori admits. “You just need practice.”

Ren doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m going to break a leg,” she murmurs in a stage-whisper.

“Oh, don’t be a pussy. You’ll be fine. And you will be _terrifyingly tall_. Not that you aren’t already.”

“Height really isn’t a problem,” Ren agrees. She takes one very wobbly step. Her face is comical. Her mouth is drawn down in concentration, and she keeps having to puff her bangs out of her eyes with decisive gusts of air to see clearly. Her expression dissolves into pure terror when Nori moves away a little, and her arm stretches out. “Wait! Don’t leave me!”

“I’m not _going_ anywhere, you dummy,” Nori says, putting her hands on her hips. “Come on, you can do it. Just one step.”

Ren breathes in deeply. “Okay. I _can_ do this. One step. One step, one step.”

“Stop saying it and try already.”

Her face pinches, and then she puts a cautious foot forward. The sole of her shoe meets the floor with a satisfying _tick_ sound. God, Nori really does love heels. Ren follows suit with the other, and inches closer to her friend. She looks up from where she’s staring down at her feet, grinning like she’s just been given the best present ever.

“I did it!”

Nori smirks. “See? Not so ha—”

“ _Wah!_ ”

Ren slips, flails funnily for about a second, and then lands face-down with a bone-jarring _thud_ , limbs sprawled. She makes a hilarious, tiny sound of dismay, but doesn’t lift her head from the floor. Nori felt the force of that fall through her own shoes. She sighs resignedly.

“Spoke too soon.”

 

…

 

_“Hey, Nori?”_

_“Hm.”_

_She doesn’t look up from where she’s working. Her drawing block is balanced on her knees. If she loses her place now she won’t be able to tell where she left off and she’ll have to start the entire lineart again. It’s not something she has the patience for tonight. She needs to work to keep her brain away from bad thoughts. She needs… to focus. Work is good. Work is familiar._

_If she does enough of it, it’ll shut the darkness out. Ren’s lying down on the other half of her couch, cuddled up in a ridiculous woolly sweatshirt that’s so long and big it was probably worn by a troll before Ren ever found it in whatever thrifty stores she calls her favorites. The TV set in the living room is playing some random soap-opera, but the volume is low. It’s more background noise than anything. Ren likes falling asleep to the sound of things. She says the silence unsettles her. Nori doesn’t ask why. She has a feeling it’s not a story she’d like to hear._

_“I’m really glad… he stopped you,” Ren says haltingly, and that makes Nori put her pen down. She looks at Ren, whose eyes are shutting drowsily, who has a hand curled up under her chin, who seems at home here as she would with her own family—whoever they were before she met Nori. She hasn’t really talked about it. She’ll tell Nori when she’s ready._

_“I don’t know how I feel about it,” Nori mutters. She_ does _know how she feels about it. Bitter. Bitter and tired. It’s not fair that payback’s restricted. It’s not fair that ghouls are second-class citizens—not even that. Animals. Hunted._ Vermin. _It’s not fair that everyone has to stand by and watch while their loved ones are murdered, and maimed, and executed according to criteria they cannot control. It’s unfair that innocent families have to live in fear of discovery, in fear of death and exile and torture. Whatever happened to Ren was unfair. What happened to Suzume was unfair. It’s_ unfair.

_“I know about myself,” Ren answers, and then Nori feels the brush of her hand as she takes one of Nori’s fingers and holds it, the way a child holds their mother when they’re looking for comfort. It makes Nori’s back grow rigid—and then she unwinds, somewhat. Ren’s hold on her increases just a little. “I’m glad. I don’t want to lose anyone else. I… want you to be happy.”_

_A knot forms in Nori’s chest. “I’m trying.”_

_“I know,” Ren repeats. Her grip grows lax, and she closes her eyes. “Goodnight… love you.”_

_By the time Nori has gotten halfway to deciding how to respond to that, Ren is snoring softly, face pressed into the couch pillows. She’s going to have marks on her cheeks when she wakes up. Nori snorts, and pulls her hand gently out of Ren’s. She fluffs her friend’s hair—her bizarre, odd friend’s hair, and then picks up her pen again._

_“Goofball.”_

_…_

Ren catches sight of him on her second round. She likes spinning in the stools Nori keeps in her tattoo parlor. It’s like being on a merry-go-round. “Ah, Tsukiyama.”

He smiles at her cheerily and does a little mock bow. Today he’s in a two-piece suit of blinding blue. A white handkerchief is peeking out of his breast-pocket. His shoes are brown leather. Ren likes them. She seems to remember Nori saying something about brown shoes and blue suits, but it escapes her at the moment.

“Just Shuu to you, my dear. We’ve known each other for some time now. Where is my lovely lady? She wasn’t at the front desk.”

Ren nods. “She went out to get some of those sticks you light on fire.”

“Cigarettes?”

“Those,” she says, and spins around again, once. “What are you doing?”

Tsukiyama has ducked around the little curtains hanging by one of the windows. “I’m going to surprise her.”

“I can still see your feet,” Ren points out, and the curtains move. She supposes he’s shrugging.

Another nudge behind the curtains. “A gentleman must always compromise with what’s at his disposal.”

“She might hurt you,” Ren warns him. Nori doesn’t like surprises.

“But, my dear, that’s half the fun!”

Ren shakes her head. She likes to think she understands Tsukiyama a bit, but he’s a lot like the weather. Sometimes it snows, sometimes it rains, sometimes it storms—and sometimes there’s altogether sunlight. It can be like that all in one day. It’s confusing, and it fits him. She likes him, and he’s good for Nori. This is where Nori would say _it doesn’t count_ , because Ren likes _everything_. Spin. The room turns into a blur around her, and the toes of her shoes skim along the ground. Yes, she does like him, and Nori, and she likes them together, and she hopes things can stay this way.

She really does.

 

…

 

_“Okay, what is it?”_

_She jumps a bit when he asks her that. Ren’s been sitting next to him for the last fifteen minutes, and every so often she squirms, as though there’s a hot bed of coals underneath the sofa. She arrived about twenty minutes ago, and the small talk didn’t last long. It doesn’t take someone with more than two brain cells to tell that she’s preoccupied. She looks at Uta, deer caught in the headlights, and then directs her gaze back down at her lap. She blinks fast—something she only does when she’s nervous. Ren blinks about as much as a chameleon. He knows. He does the same._

_“What is what? It isn’t anything. I—yes. Ahem.”_

_He crosses his legs and worries at the piercing on his lip. It helps him think. “You’ve drunk about four cups of coffee… instead of your customary one and a half. You can’t sit still. You keep glancing over here when you think I’m not looking, and it’s actually getting a little creepy. Would you like me to go on?”_

_“No,” she says immediately and then turns to face him. The sofa squeaks below her. He should probably get it replaced. It_ is _a little old. “I—I want to say something.”_

_“Okay,” he starts. He turns too, so that they’re face-to-face, knees almost brushing. She likes being near him—it was one of the things he first noticed about her. Ren enjoys contact in any form. Starved for affection _—_ a perfect aspect to exploit. People become complacent when they believe they're safe. Right now she’s staring at her ankles, where her hands are clasped. The breeze from the open window stirs the hair around her face. “So?” _

_“So,” she echoes, and does little else. She just keeps staring, and then red rises gradually in her cheeks, until her entire face is the color of healthy beets. He knows what she's going to say. He put the idea in her head, after all._

_“Are you… alright?”_

_“Yes!” Ren exclaims. She startles herself with how loudly she says it. “I’m—yes, I’m fine. I’m very fine. Good. Well.”_

_“You’re blushing,” he observes, but that only makes it worse. She slaps her palms to her cheeks and the baggy sweater she’s wearing slips from her shoulders. She's so stupid and so head-over-heels it's almost cute. Almost._

_“I really am,” she murmurs. “I came here today to—to request something of you.”_

_Here we go. “Oh?_

_“Yes,” she says for the third time in as many minutes. “I…”_

_“…_ Yes?” _he prompts, substituting for her. The playful reiteration of her own words turns her even redder. Huh. He didn’t know that was possible._

_She shuts her eyes, sits up on her knees, and bows so fast she almost clips his chin with the top of her head. “I would like—I would like to put forth an entreaty, and ask you whether it would be probable to consider entering a period during which we could share a space to coexist in!”_

_Bingo._

_“Are you wondering… if I’d like you to move in with me?”_

_“Yes!”_

_That time it’s nearly a yell. She only lifts her eyes to his when he bursts out laughing _—_ mostly because she's following his predictions to a tee and it's all going along smoothly, and he finds that funny. She probably thinks he's happy. Her expression is bordering on worried. He’s laughing when he takes her face in his hands, and laughing when he kisses her. His lip-ring catches on her teeth as he pulls away. She’s holding her breath. _

_“Yes,” he answers. “I thought you’d never ask.”_

_A bald-faced lie._

_Now she looks dismayed. “You wanted me to?”_

_“I didn’t want to push you,” he says, and listens to her exhale in relief._

_She bumps her forehead to his none too gently. “And I thought you’d say no.”_

_“Well, you thought wrong,” Uta retorts. She smiles a smile that's become disturbingly familiar to him. This isn't good._

_“I’m glad I did.”_

_…_

Nori’s standing over her when she opens her eyes.

“Hey, Snorlax,” Nori greets and combs the bleached hair out of her face. “You awake?”

Ren yawns and stretches her arms until her hands pop out of her oversized sleeves. She feels warm and content.

“I am now.”


	2. Sometimes You Can't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick review of pointers for both the girls, because this oneshot jumps around a lot: Ren used to be "employed" by the government. She hunted ghouls and underwent a shitton of experiments before something allowed her to escape the facility (you'll learn more later on). Nori owns a tattoo parlor in the 20th Ward that serves both human and ghoul customers. She's the one who found Ren and took her in and reintroduced her to life until Ren could stand on her own two feet. Ren spent a small amount of time with Anteiku, but left as a result of deciding their moral differences and attitudes toward humans were too great for her to ignore.
> 
> Cool? Cool. Onward!
> 
> The oneshots are a little muddled in timeline right now, but will become more linear as they go on.

I’VE LEARNED THAT NO MATTER HOW MUCH I CARE,  
SOME PEOPLE JUST DON’T CARE BACK.

…

 

The ghoul that corners Second-Class Investigator Junko Kobayashi is taller than her by a good two heads. It’s a female—it comes out of nowhere, blindsiding her.

They go tumbling down the grassy hill together, and Junko only stops rolling when she hits a tree. The bark tears at the back of her suit, but doesn’t go through it. She’s winded for a second, and then she reaches for her quinque. Her fingers barely brush at the suitcase’s handle when it’s kicked beyond her reach. The toe of the ghoul’s boot makes a heavy _thud_ as it connects with the side of her unreleased quinque. She sits up, staggering to her feet, and manages to dodge the ghoul throws at her by the skin of her teeth. The fist that blows past her cheek with inches to spare breaks through half of the tree trunk with ease. Splinters go flying. One glances Junko on the brow. She can feel the blood dripping down the side of her face as she ducks behind another tree.

This time the entire trunk comes crashing down within the span of another second. The brunt of the ghoul’s kagune smashes through the wood with an ease reserved for children breaking their toys at play. Junko catches just a glimpse of the mask on its face—reflective, silver, almost like—a mirror? The ghoul has the hood of their jacket up, and though it’s easy to discern it’s female, little else can be told. Its kagune is a koukaku. Heavy, hard-hitting, and _supposedly_ slow, but she’s never seen another koukaku release with this speed. It’s the color of charcoal, shot through with pulsing veins of a blue so bright it makes Junko squint. Another first.

She stoops under the reach of another blow, listening to the _whoom_ of air above her head as the hammer-shaped kagune hurtles past. Had that connected, the impact would have pulverized her skull. The ghoul widens its stance, heels digging into the soft earth, and Junko takes advantage of the momentary respite to try and relocate her quinque. It’s lying three feet away, propped up against a log. If she could just _get_ to it—

The thought is still finishing itself in her head when the kagune slams across her middle. Pain explodes between her ribs. Two of them crack. It makes her scream, but the sound is cut short when she lands. She gasps, and the agony is made worse by the stretch of her lungs expanding. She can’t move. The ghoul stands over her, the dim light of the park’s lanterns shining on the surface of its mask. Junko doesn’t say anything, just swallows the blood in her mouth. She walks home through this park every day, at precisely nine o’clock PM. She likes it because the place is deserted—and now that’s going to cost her. A hiss of pain escapes her when the ghoul reaches down and yanks her upright by the collar of her shirt.

The eyes behind the mask, liquid, burning scarlet—they glare at her through the shadows cast on the ghoul’s face. The ashes of its dissolving kagune drift away in the summer breeze.

“You don’t recognize me,” the ghoul says. Junko chokes as the collar of her shirt constricts her throat. “I cannot blame you. I _have_ gotten larger.”

Junko spits at it. A gob of red divides and slides between the shards of the ghoul’s mirror-like mask.

“Your kind are a dime a dozen.”

The crimson irises of ghouls have always unsettled her. They’re unnatural, and the ones staring at her are almost trembling in the dark void surrounding them. She can’t see anything other than them—even the ghoul’s mouth is covered, but she _can_ see her own reflection in the panels on the mask’s cheeks. Her orderly hair is mussed, and one of her temples is slathered in blood. She has bags under her eyes. Junko could never sleep well, and after the baby came, it became even worse.

“Think very hard,” the ghoul growls, and shakes her a little. It jars her teeth together.

“Vermin all looks the same,” Junko rasps. The ghoul bodily lifts her with a single hand and throws her to the tree trunk a few steps behind her. “Agh!”

“It must be disheartening to be so fragile,” the ghoul says casually. Its fingers dig into Junko’s neck. Its other hand rises. First it pushes the hood from its head. A long swath of fine dark hair unfurls over the ghoul’s shoulders, spilling down its back. Then comes the mask. Junko finally catches sight of the pert mouth and the rounded nose below the eyes. The branching veins of the kagune spread down the ghoul’s face from the corner of its eyes—this thing looks like a woman, but it is a _creature_. A beast in a deceiving skin.

Junko’s legs swing aimlessly. Her breath is becoming shorter. “We get by.”

“Look at me,” the ghoul orders. It shakes Junko until she complies with its request. “ _Look at me_.”

She doesn’t know what it wants—why it’s prolonging this. She is opening her mouth to make another taunting retort when something jogs in her memory. Something… old. Forgotten. She gazes at the ghoul, and then, slowly, the pieces come together. The realization must have shown in her expression, for the ghoul’s lips press together.

“You…!”

“Me,” it replies dispassionately. Its eyes are still fixed on her. “Do you remember now?”

“Subject Sixteen,” Junko blurts before she can stop herself. “But you—”

“—died?” the ghoul scoffs. “Yes, that’s what most of you believe, isn’t it?”

Junko scrabbles at the ghoul’s hand, attempting to make it let her go, without any success. “What do you want?”

“It doesn’t particularly matter,” Sixteen replies. “There’s not much you can do about it.”

“ _What do you want_?”

Sixteen blinks at her, all lashes and deliberation. “I just answered you. Do you regret?”

“What?”

“I said,” Sixteen says quietly, “ _do you regret_?”

Junko scowls at it. “Regret _what_?”

The chokehold around her throat tightens painfully. “Everything. What you did to my mother. What you did to _me_. All those years—every day, the tests, the collars, the _missions_ —the ones you made me hunt. Do you ever think about any of it?”

Junko feebly tries to kick at Sixteen’s stomach, but it doesn’t work. The strikes don’t even faze Sixteen in the least.

Spit gargles at the curve of Junko’s lip. “You were a weapon.”

“I was a _little girl_!” Sixteen screams in her face, and despite all her years of training and field work, Junko shuts her eyes in fear. She can feel the touch of the ghoul’s exhalation on her skin. The echo of its voice fades and ebbs around her, like a chanted curse.

“Is this revenge?” the investigator says, gagging on the words.

“No,” Sixteen assures her. “This is education. Your daughter turned seven this week. I congratulate you. She’s adorable.”

Junko goes stiff, and then she explodes into movement, lack of oxygen be damned. She scratches at the ghoul ineffectively, claws at anything available to her, pounds her heels into the tree, tries to wail, to express the panic and the anger and the _you will not touch her_ —it does nothing. Sixteen just stays standing, holding her up, watching her with those impassive eyes, once in a while closing them and then opening them again. The rage doesn’t dissipate. Junko is fraught with tension, the tendons in her arms and legs strained to their limits. Her heart is pounding, but even the pain of her broken ribs seems far away now.

“Don’t you dare harm her,” Junko says, though she’s not in any position to issue threats.

“Even if I planned to, there would be nothing you could do to stop me,” Sixteen returns. Then it tilts its head to the side. The gossamer-thin strands of its bangs hang to the right as it does so. “So, how does that feel? Wishing against something and knowing no matter how badly you want it—it can’t ever come true? Do you like it?”

Junko wheezes. “You’re insane!”

“You made me what I am,” Sixteen answers simply. “Are you proud of your work?”

“I wasn’t in charge,” Junko tells it. Her vision is going dark at the edges. “It wasn’t me! Just don’t hurt Aiko!”

The ghoul’s mouth pulls down in a snarl. “I blame all of you. You’re filth. Murderers. You once told me devils had no family. That they couldn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘ _mother_.’ I was turned into this. You—you were _born._ Who is the devil now?”

All Junko can offer in response is a strangled gurgle. The ghoul tilts its head again, this time to the other side. It looks curious, almost innocent, and its grasp on her is crushing.

“Devils don’t have family,” it says in a high, sing-song voice, like a kid reciting the kagome-kagome rhyme. “Shut up and do as you’re told. Your daughter will forget your face. She’ll wake up one day and won’t be able to remember the sound of you talking. _This is all your fault, stupid. Don’t go where I can’t see you._ Goodbye, Miss Kobayashi.”

Junko is thinking about the red swing she set up the past weekend for Aiko in the garden—she’s thinking of that when Sixteen’s hand collapses her trachea and rips the esophagus out from behind it. Sixteen lets go and Junko crumples to the ground. She spends the last few seconds of consciousness reflexively trying to jam the things trailing from her open throat back into place, wrists lolling, fingers seeking. Her hands twitch, and the last of her balance crumbles. It’s so murky now. She falls in the grass and doesn’t get up again.

Sixteen hums a snatch of the first song that pops up in her mind, and then daintily hops over the bloody, prone form that used to be Junko. She scoops up her mask, fastens it in place, tucks her hair into her hoodie, and proceeds to rest her hands in her pockets. Should probably hide them, she thinks. They’re covered in… stuff.

Whistling, she turns around and leaves it all behind.

 

…

 

Ren is never late.

Which is why Nori is outside her apartment, letting herself in with the spare key. The first thing she sees when she steps inside is an abandoned pair of muddy boots. There are dark tracks all over the floor. Ren likes to keep the place bare—no pictures, no photographs, no paintings—and the futon in the corner is perfectly made, undisturbed. Nori shrugs off her jacket and sets it down on the chair by the coffee table.

“Ren?”

A crash rings out from down the hall. The bathroom, Nori realizes, and she moves quickly toward it, the heels of her shoes clicking sharply against the hardwood. She strides into the hall, pausing only before the bathroom door when she hears the rough sound of someone retching. She opens it to find Ren kneeling on the beige-tiled floor, bent over the toilet bowl, puking her guts out, white-knuckled hands clenched at the sides of the porcelain. Nori approaches her quickly and gathers the hair away from her face. Ren gasps and shrinks to the left in shock, not even bothering to wipe her lips.

“It’s just me,” Nori says softly, and tears well up in Ren’s large eyes.

She tries to reply, but all she does is end up vomiting again. Nori combs her hand through Ren’s hair, careful not to let her nails catch on anything. Suzume used to have a sensitive stomach. This is more familiar to her than she’d like. When Ren leans away for a second time, Nori can clearly see the irritated red under her eyes—and further down, sprayed liberally over her baggy white tee are blotches of crimson. Spatters of it are on her pants, too. Dried blood is caked under Ren’s fingernails. She’s pale as a sheet.

“Not mine,” Ren whispers. The tears spill. “Couldn’t stop myself.”

“You don’t have to rush,” Nori tells her, and smoothes the hair out of her eyes. “Lemme get you a glass of water. You alright?”

Ren mutters her barely-intelligible acquiescence, letting her arms fall to her sides, limp. It takes Nori maybe only half a minute to get up, go to the kitchen, pour a glass of water out, and trot in a return course to the bathroom. Ren is still seated when she comes in, and she has to crouch to offer the glass. Ren takes it with a trembling hand. She has to wait for a bit before her grip is steady enough to allow her to take a gulp of water and rinse her mouth out with it. She spits it in the toilet bowl and then pulls on the lever to flush everything down the drain.

Nori watches her as she puts the glass down and inches away until her spine hits the rim of the bathtub. In a movement Nori’s seen a thousand times before, Ren draws up her knees and puts her hands around them, pressing her face to the back of them. Nori waits until Ren lifts her head once more. The lights of the bathroom flicker above them.

“I killed her,” Ren says plainly. Her face looks gaunt, almost skeletal. “I killed her. Sixteen killed her.”

“Who?” Nori asks, and Ren’s face twists like she’s remembering something horrible.

“The lady in brown,” Ren murmurs. She says that the way you talk about things that scare you, as though they’ll magically be able to hear you and get clued in on where you are. “She used to be the one to take me out—she watched—she had the club that _burned_. Didn’t know her name. Learned it this year. Junko Kobayashi. _The lady in brown_.”

There’s a pause. “Do you feel guilty?”

Ren’s fists grow tight again. Her toes curl. “Not guilty. Never guilty.”

Now her expression crumples, kind of like a soufflé collapsing in on itself, or a house of cards falling to pieces from the inside out—and then she sobs, and the tears come fast. Nori wishes Ren wouldn’t have to spend half of her life crying.

“Relieved,” Ren says, the word bursting out of her. “ _So relieved._ Gone. She’s gone.”

Nori retreats and observes her. She wouldn’t do this for anybody else.

“…Do you need a hug?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Ren cries as Nori opens her arms with a clink of bracelet-on-bracelet.

They remain there for a long time, Ren with her head bowed, Nori sitting at her side, stroking at the fluffy down of Ren’s hair. She accidentally pokes Ren’s scalp with her nails more than once, but her big friend doesn’t seem to care. The bathroom is full of the scents of copper and stale vomit—and coconut oil. It’s not exactly what Nori would call a high-end experience, though she doesn’t care. It takes more to make her feel sick. Ren sniffles and nuzzles her nose into the fray of Nori’s curls. What a ditz.

“You smell nice,” Ren mumbles.

“I wish I could say the same about you,” Nori jokes. “You need to take a shower.”

Ren doesn’t move. “I do. I will. Can you stay for a little bit more?”

Nori sighs and gives up on any plans of standing. “ _Fine_. Tch. What am I going to do with you?”

“I dunno.”

“Dummy.”

“Ehe.”

 

…

 

 _“Take me home and get rid of the mystery. I’ll show you—I’ll_ prove _to you that you won’t want to have anything to do with me—ever again.”_

_That’s what she’d said, at least._

_She’s not so sure he took it as seriously as she intended him to, if the way he kicked the door to his bedroom open was of any indication. She’s surprised it didn’t leave a hole in the goddamn wood. He has a big house. He’s taller than her (no surprise there) even in her boots—but she_ is _tall enough to grab that hideous tie, loosen it, and toss it away. Hopefully it’s going to stay gone until tomorrow. She’s wanted to do that all night. She'd be more aware of her surroundings in a normal situation but right now she's hammered and pretty horny and she doesn't think she'll be doing any sort of observation any time soon._

 _Only ten seconds of staring makes her decide that yes, he definitely looks better with his hair messed up. Another thing she’s wanted to do all night. He’s also pretty good with his hands (that’s appreciated, very appreciated) and doesn’t cow under any of her bolder advances (appreciation number two). Next, she needs to get rid of the eyesore shirt. That’s quick work, and she’s actually kinda surprised at the lean tone of his musculature. Guys in suits often don’t look just as nice out of them. She has to restrain a sound of surprise when he leans down, sweeps his arms under her, and hefts her_ up.

 _She’d have killed another man for that—but this is going to be a one-night thing, and there’s no use in letting him know more about her than she’d_ want _a one-night thing type of guy to know about her. So she just wraps her legs around his waist… and sort of regrets it when he smirks. She can see that even in the dark of their surroundings. She’s about to let go, having thought better of it, and then he steps back._

_“Watch the sculpture, moron,” she informs him, listening to a probably priceless statue wobble and then eventually set itself right again. He laughs. His hands tighten around her thighs._

_“My apologies,” he says. It makes her roll her eyes._

_“Yeah, whatever.”_

_They get to the bed without any more possibly-fatal collisions to impede them. She tosses off her boots (goodbye extra five inches) the minute she hits the mattress. She twists her arms behind her back and tugs at the laces of her shirt. It’s just started coming loose when he takes her face in his hands and covers her mouth with his._

_Maybe it’s the alcohol, all that liquid courage—maybe it’s the entirely scary feeling of being totally alone—maybe it’s just being hesitant and the tiredness of being constantly irritable and keeping everyone out that really just allows her to get carried away if only for just a second. He bites at her bottom lip none too gently and she starts thinking of a way to respond when she catches herself and puts her hands on his chest, palms splayed. Her raking nails leave tracks of unhappy skin in their wake. She pushes, and they come apart with a click of teeth._

_“No,” she says, hating the way she stutters over that word. “No kissing.”_

_He looks a little shocked, but recovers quickly enough. There’s burgundy lipstick smeared on him. He tugs at the last knot of her shirt’s laces, making it come loose, and shrugs._

_“As you wish.”_

_…_

She hears him before she feels him. She’s standing with her back to the living room, presiding over a table _full_ of scattered papers, trying to figure out where the holy goddamn fuck to start. Is there any right place to start with paperwork? God, she loathes paperwork. Why can’t everything just magically sort itself out? What a pain. What a _hassle._ A pair of arms slides around her. Any other time, it’d have been most welcome. But, _paperwork._

Nori ignores Shuu when he comes up behind her and sets his chin on the top of her head.

“Go away. I have taxes to file.”

“Don’t be like that,” he says. The timbre of his voice reverberates clearly against her back.

“I’ll be like whatever I want to be,” she shoots back, and then shuffles around a few bills. “I need to work.”

“You need to relax,” Shuu insists. His hands inch downward.

“Above waist-level,” Nori warns him, clamping her hands over his wrists and dragging them back up. “Can you see the shitstorm on this table? I have to have this cleared by tomorrow afternoon.”

He hums into her hair. “That’s plenty of time,” he says, sounding absolutely certain and absolutely breezy. If he keeps on going she’s sure he’ll learn what breezy means—it’s gotta be nothing but breezy when you’re _flying_ , right?

“If you don’t mind last minute cramming and wrong calculations. Which I do. Not in the mood for mistakes.”

“My _dear—_ ”

“Don’t call me that.”

“— _my dear_ , it’ll all go by faster if you’re adequately comfortable.”

She frowns, picks up a paper, and inspects it. What in the world does the Control Center for _Contagious Disease_ have to do with INC? Did she even read that right? Maybe it’s a wrong mailing. Or maybe there’s a strain of anthrax running rampant in Tokyo, killing thousands as it goes, and this is a notice about it. Pleasant. The human population does need a bit of whittling. She turns the paper on its other side, scanning the text. No explanation, just a list of preventative measures to take to lessen your chances of contracting ebola. Really? _Really_?

“Are you listening?”

“Unfortunately,” she replies. She still hasn’t solved the enigma of the Control Center paper when Shuu takes her by the wrists and spins her around. Her shoes help him. She comes to a neat stop right in front of him, and her nose brushes one of the buttons of his shirt (his nasty, nasty shirt). Her teeth grit. “I’m going to—”

“—bash my skull in? Throw me through a wall? Hm. Yes, about that,” he says, and then stoops lower to press a surprisingly tender kiss to her lips. She’s getting over the initial _what the fuck_ at the change in MO when he moves in a little closer and nibbles on her ear. “Play with me.”

“I _swear_ ,” she starts, yanking him down by his bowtie. “Only for a while. Got it?”

Shuu grins. “As you wish.”

 

…

 

_Uta takes off the top of the box with the new ghoul’s mask inside of it—and watches her face as it goes through surprise, suspicion, and finally stops at good old distrust. She’s sitting on the stool she’d chosen when she came in to have her measurements taken._

_“Why mirror?” she asks baldly, though the way in which she speaks is still a little childish._

_“I noticed you seemed startled each time you caught your reflection,” he says._

_He looks down at the mask he finished just last night. It’s one of his favorites so far, if he has to be honest. It’s a patchwork of silver, scale upon scale of the painstakingly-placed slivers that make up the front of the mask. She has big eyes, and the design will emphasize those—he wants to see her wear it, to see if it’ll be anything like it was in his imagination._

_“You_ can _touch it, you know,” he reminds her after he notices her staring, and she jerks back like she’s been burned. “It’s yours, after all.”_

_“…Mine?” she murmurs. She blinks at him questioningly. “I can keep it?”_

_“I made it for you,” Uta says, lacing his hands together. “It won’t fit anyone else.”_

_He makes sure to stay utterly motionless as she reaches out to take the mask from its box. She scares easily, and sudden movements don’t help at all. And if the way she shrinks in on herself every time she comes through HySy’s door is a reliable sign about what she thinks of this place, he doesn’t want to make it any worse. His kakugan are what unsettle her most, he’s learned. She can never maintain eye-contact—always looks away at some point or other. It’s somewhat strange having a woman taller than you be_ alarmed _by you. He could get used to it._

_The paper inside the box rustles as she lifts the mask, clasping it between two cautious hands. She turns it from side to side, letting it catch in the glare of the studio lights._

_“It’s very lovely,” she says in a quiet voice._

_“I’m glad you think so,” he responds with a bit of a smile. “Just don’t beat it up too bad, okay?”_

_“I promise not to,” she vows, and then holds the mask close to her chest. After a moment’s hesitation, she lifts her gaze, and, for once, doesn’t flinch away. “Thank you.”_

_Hook, line, and sinker._

_…_

Ren is trying to focus on the fact that she’ll be going to Nori’s flat for coffee after she’s done with her lifting in Anteiku’s pantry, but it’s getting to be very difficult, especially when all she seems to be able to do is picture Ryoko hugging Hinami. Ryoko laughing. Ryoko holding her daughter tight, or letting Hinami pull her hair-tie out, or giving Hinami her mug of coffee and failing at keeping in her giggling when her daughter makes a face at the taste. The plastic bag of beans Ren’s holding squeaks as she constricts it.

“Is something the matter?”

Ren turns to find Yoshimura standing in the doorway. His hands are clasped behind his back, and his starched white shirt is wrinkle-free, perfectly ironed—as always.

“Manager,” Ren says, not knowing what else to. “I… I’m almost done.”

“Take your time,” he remarks. She doesn’t like the way him looking at her makes her feel. She stares down at the bag in her hands. Tension rises in her.

“Touka was right.”

Yoshimura sighs. He sounds disappointed. “Ren—”

“No,” she interrupts, facing him. She shoves the bag into the shelf, an afterthought. “You must listen to me this time, manager.”

“I have a feeling I know what you’re going to say.”

“Nevertheless,” Ren continues, keeping her eyes on him. “Ryoko was murdered. It was unprovoked. It was _wrong_.”

Another sigh. “And it will have meant nothing if we respond in kind.”

Her throat closes up. This is the most she’s spoken in a long time. “This isn’t some random, freak incident. This happens ordinarily. _Systematically._ Don’t you understand, manager? The humans are not interested in peace—not the investigators. And the civilians are ignorant. Frightened. It is only a step down from the intent the investigators display. This isn’t going to _stop_.”

“It won’t stop if we begin a war, either,” Yoshimura says. She hates the calm tone of his voice, like he knows more than her. She’s spent a lifetime listening to people talk to her that way.

“The war is _already being fought_ ,” she insists, trying to figure out where to put her hands. She wants to hit something. “Innocents are dying. They don’t care—if it’s child or mother, father or brother. They took me. They took Ryoko. They even took Kaneki’s humanity. When is it going to be enough for you?”

“And what is the alternative?” he asks. Still calm. “Slaughter? _Aogiri_?”

“Aogiri is not the only way, and you know it,” Ren says and straightens to her full height. “This isn’t going to go away with just sitting in the middle and declaring neutrality. At one point or another, you will _have_ to pick a side—and you’re going to take all those loyal down with you when you do, because you will choose late.”

“It sounds like you don’t wish to work at Anteiku anymore,” Yoshimura says. Now there’s disappointment. “I was hoping that you, of all people, would understand. Revenge gains us nothing. If we act like the monsters they say we are, we are proving them right.”

That stings. “They’ll believe it either way. We may as well defend ourselves if they will. I think it is you who does not understand, manager. I’ve always known I’m a monster. You—you may think you’ve escaped that part of yourself, by surrounding yourself with all these things that make you feel safe. But it always follows. Always. Even if you run away.”

“I see,” Yoshimura says, but she doesn’t think he does. She unties the apron from her front, lifts it up over her head, and throws it over a stool. She rips her nametag off and leaves it on top of the apron.

“I apologize for the inconvenience and the short notice,” Ren says stiffly, “but I respectfully resign. I will vacate the apartment above the store within four days.”

“You don’t have to,” he answers, quiet and deliberate as he ever is.

“Yes,” she says. “I do.”

She walks past him, and he lets her.

She doesn’t look back.

 

…

 

Nori slurps at the last of her drink noisily as she watches her friend pack.

“I wish _my_ life could fit into five boxes,” she says, and Ren flops onto the couch beside her. “Not that I’m not proud of you for standing up to Ass-Face, but, uh—have you planned on where to go?”

“I don’t know how to ask Uta about it,” Ren whines. She covers her face with the over-large sleeves of her sweater. Today’s specimen is aniseed green, woolen (of course), about five sizes too big for her, and full of bouncing, fluffy pompoms. They’re all over the collar, the ends of the sleeves, and the hem. Honestly, Nori has no idea where Ren finds these things.

“He’s your boyfriend,” Nori says. She uncaps her cup and tilts it back so that she can crunch on the remaining ice cubes. “Didn’t you say about a week ago that he pretty much put the idea forward?”

“It was implied,” Ren clarifies, staying under the cover of her sleeves. “But what if I do say it and it turns out he doesn’t want to live with me?”

 _Crunch_. “Then you’ll know, and I’ll know, and he’ll know, and we’ll all know and be better for it. Seriously, though. I don’t think he’d refuse. Every time you turn your back he looks at you like a lovesick puppy. It’s fucking disgusting.”

Ren makes a small ‘heehee’ sound at that. “I hope you’re right. I wish we could be more like you and Tsukiyama,” she muses, stretching out her legs. “You seem pretty comfortable.”

“Well, you aren’t, so take your balls outta your purse and _ask_ him already. _I’m_ getting frustrated and I’m not even involved.”

“Balls? But I don’t have those… do I?”

A year ago Nori would have considered this a surreal conversation. Being friends with Ren, however, has effortlessly turned her definition of surreal on its head.

“I dunno. Were they there the last time you checked?”

The sleeves slide from Ren’s face. She looks unequivocally horrified. “Can you _grow_ them?”

“That’d be new,” Nori says. “There’s nothing in this place to stare at. How do you survive?”

“I look at the ceiling,” Ren tells her, and then points upward. “There.”

“It’s white. Just white. So very white.”

“Uta has a lot of paintings.”

“There you go, perfect compromise. You can sit around all day and stare at _his_ stuff. Can’t go wrong.”

Ren frowns, but keeps her eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t know…”

“If you want to stay over for a day or two while you think about it, you can. But I’ll kick you out after that.”

They both know that’s a lie. Ren laughs anyway.

“That sounds nice.”

“You’re absolutely pathetic. What would you do without me?” she asks, honoring their little tradition of question and answer.

“Be very lonely,” Ren says, no less off time with this reply than she has been with the last hundred.

Nori snorts and kicks her playfully. “Dork.”


	3. Hearts At War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important note I forgot to include in the past two chapters: all the ideas and hypotheses and headcanons you see here were conceived BEFORE the publication of the sequel. We've been working on these characters since the halfway point of the Aogiri arc. Ummm, what else? Oh, Kaiju is Nori's bearded dragon. 
> 
> That's all! Thanks, peace out~

I’VE LEARNED THAT JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE DOESN’T LOVE YOU   
THE WAY YOU WANT THEM TO, DOESN’T MEAN THEY DON’T LOVE YOU  
WITH ALL THEY HAVE.

…

 

_Tsukiyama sleeps like the dead._

_It’s why he doesn’t wake when Nori gets out of bed, puts a thin robe on (the apartment gets really fucking cold in the winter), and sits in the chair on the other end of the room to light up._

_The cigarette only really burns when she takes a drag. A halo of red encircles her vision for a split second before it dies down and the smoke goes up. Usually, this helps with quieting her jangling nerves. Tonight, it feels like more of a chore than a relaxation. Puff. Smoke trails in ribbons from her between her teeth, curling upward and disappearing into the dark of the room. She crosses her legs, can’t stop the compulsive bounce of her knee. Her eyes move from the hardwood floor and the gleam of the city lights on its surface to the rumpled mess of the bed-sheets, and then the man sleeping on his stomach in the middle of them._

_His usual “I’m trying too hard” expression melts away when he’s asleep—all that’s left are the defined lines of the strong brow, the surprisingly symmetrical set of his jaw, and the relaxed curve of his mouth… which in repose looks more sad than neutral. She wonders if that’s natural for him. She’s caught him when he thinks she isn’t looking (she’s always looking), in the moments that he thinks he doesn’t have to be on guard, and the things she’s seen in him then are so familiar that mulling on them too long makes her distinctly uncomfortable. He laughs entirely too much, exaggerates far too grandly, and talks criminally fast, like if he doesn’t rush to get the words out, they’ll just escape and disappear altogether._

_More than once, when he’s doing something, or talking, or making some convoluted analogy, she’s struck by this—weird feeling that she’s gazing into a mirror, tracking the movements of her own distorted reflection._

_She hates it._

_Plumes of smoke gather around her head. She flicks her fingers and they part, like wheat before the scythe, and she tries to keep her eyes on them, but they don't obey her and always end up rounding back to Tsukiyama; back to the gentle rise and fall of his back as he breathes, the way the loose hairs of his fringe flutter when he exhales, or the—rather appealing—downward taper of the beginning of his hips. She likes him. She likes him a lot. And not just because he knows how to dance between the sheets. She_ likes _him, and it fucking scares her. She takes another hasty puff of smoke, not letting it go until the very last second. They've been together a couple of times now, more than once, and at the start it was sort of easy to kid herself into thinking it was a let's-do-the-freaky-for-a-quickie kind of thing, but now it's been longer and she's had to catch herself a couple of times before admitting to him things she hasn't admitted to anyone in a while. It's getting increasingly familiar to be around him. Left unchecked, it'll evolve into being a habit, which means she's screwed _—and not in the good way._ Red flag. Red flags all around. _

 _Nori’s heart starts to speed, as though she’s running a marathon instead of sitting on her ass and contemplating the terrifying prospect of becoming attached. This is not good. This is_ very _not good._

_What is she going to do?_

…

 

“I need to get up sometime in the next two hours,” Nori says, but his only reply is a slurry murmur and the tightening of his arms around her waist.

He somehow always manages to wriggle his way over to this side of the bed despite her best efforts, and making him let go is a prolonged process built around knowing when to move and when he’s asleep enough to not hold on, but not _so_ asleep that she can’t squirm out of his grasp. Right now, there’s none of that happening. He wormed up next to her at around four in the morning, and he hasn’t moved since. She has no idea how someone can sleep in the same position all night. It takes her at least an hour to get adequately comfortable, let alone fall asleep.

“INC opens at ten,” she reminds him. He murmurs again.

“It’s not ten right now,” he responds later, very delayed. “So…”

Nori sighs. “Don’t you get tired doing this every time?”

She can practically feel the hesitation. He’s trying to decide whether to answer or not. Finally, he presses his brow to the nape of her neck, and the soft roll of his breath washes down her back.

“No. Not at all.”

 

…

_Ren—Nori’s finally learned her name—loves hot baths._

_Really,_ really _loves them. She’d been apprehensive of approaching them at first, but after Nori had flicked her hand in the water and shown her around bath-salts, she’d taken to them like a duck to water. Literally. She likes mountains of suds, Nori’s noticed, and has a partiality to sakura-scented shampoos. Very predictable, Nori supposes, though fitting. Ren doesn’t talk much, and it suits Nori fine, but she_ is _terribly inquisitive, and she’s fond of poking things. There is something good about it, however, and it’s that Ren seems to have a great memory. Nori only has to show her stuff once—and then it’s never mentioned again._

_Sometimes the quiet feels natural. Other times, Nori feels like Ren is expecting to be reprimanded. She’d broken a glass the other day because she’d stumbled, and her composure had come the closest to panic that Nori’s ever seen it._

_“I’m sorry,” she’d been saying, trying to stop the shaking of her hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”_

_She’d flinched away when Nori had reached down to pick up the shards of the shattered glass._

_“Don’t worry,” Nori had told her. “This is easily replaceable. It’s okay.”_

_It hadn’t helped with the trembling, but she hadn’t, at least, apologized again._

_Nori doesn’t know who taught Ren to react that way—she doesn’t ever want to meet them. She already despises them. Just thinking about it makes her heels grind into the floor. Nori walks down the hall, halting in front of the bathroom door. She can hear splashing on the other side. Ren has a tendency to doze off in warm places, and it’s made checking up on her second nature for Nori. Carefully, so as not to be a disturbance, she cracks the door open just an inch or two and looks inside._

_Her guest is sitting upright in the middle of a wealth of bluish froth, hair plastered to her face and forehead, looking for all intents and purposes like an overly-furry dog that’s been dropped into a pool. She’s made herself a long, ridiculous beard fashioned out of suds. Nori can’t help it. She lets out a little snorting laugh, and Ren looks up at her, eyes wide, and they stare at each other for a moment. Very slowly, Ren sinks down, down, until only the tip of her nose and everything over it is visible above the water. Bubbles grow and pop as she exhales into the water._

_“Having fun?” Nori asks, and Ren gives her the customary methodical nod she’s been taught to identify as one of Ren’s trademarks. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”_

_And then she pulls the door gently half-shut again, for whatever reason, much happier than she had been two minutes ago._

…

 

_Nori rifles through her purse for her keys as she turns the corner to get to her apartment building. She walks across the street, gets up on the pavement, and opens the gate to the condo complex she lives in._

_“Ugh, I can’t fucking_ find _them,” she grumbles to herself as she checks the third pocket on the left for what must be the tenth freaking time._

_“Welcome home,” a familiar voice says. Nori stops her fiddling and looks up. She has to blink once or twice to fully internalize the sight in front of her._

_Ren is seated on one of the benches lined up in the complex’s courtyard, in one of her many oversized sweaters and a pair of green-and-pink knee-high socks. Nori would be more distracted by the fact if there weren’t birdseed piled up in Ren’s lap, in her palms, and on her knees—but most amazing (or weird) part is that there are birds all over her. They’re perched on her head, nestled in her hair. Some are standing on her shoulders or knees, even on her wrists, and they’re all pecking away at the wealth of seeds available to them everywhere._

_“Ren, what the fuck?” Nori asks, and Ren seems to be about to shrug before thinking better of it._

_“Your landlady gave me the birdseed,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I am enjoying this greatly.”_

_“Yeah, I can see that,” Nori remarks as her face screws up in a revolted scowl. “I bet you smell like bird shit.”_

_“Surprisingly enough, one has yet to defecate on—… I take that back.”_

_“Oh,_ gross _.”_

 

…

 

He’s on the couch, drawing, like nothing’s the matter when she comes in through the door. He looks up and pushes his tiny pencil through the wiring of his sketchbook and smiles at her. It makes Ren’s stomach turn.

“There you are,” he says, and turns to her. He’s dressed in a dark cardigan and baggy sweats, and his feet are bare, as always. He’s clipped his hair back today—there are no strands of it hanging in front of his kakugan. She looks at him, feeling the churning sensation in her gut increase. She wonders if any of it is showing on her face. Ren lets the door close quietly behind her, but doesn’t take off her jacket. She doesn’t plan on staying long.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Uta chastises, chuckling. He beckons her over. “Come here. I want your opinion on something.”

Her lips press together. Everything feels numb, like reality can’t truly touch her, like nothing can really reach her. It’s a familiar way to feel. She knows how to work around this—how to survive a world that’s void of color and pleasure and natural desires. She’d thought she’d found something beyond that. Beyond the deadness, beyond the detachment and all the—horror. She should have expected it. Darkness follows monsters. There is no hope of light for those born in shadow.

“Is it true?” she says at last, somehow managing to force the words past her teeth. He looks puzzled. It’s so convincing. It’s so terrifying.

“Is what true?”

“Don’t play stupid,” Ren snaps. Her temper, at least, isn’t gone. “It’s insulting.”

He crosses his legs. Now the puzzlement has faded to quiet concern. “You aren’t making any sense.”

“I just told you not to play stupid,” she says warningly. “I won’t say it again. How long did you think you could keep—stringing me along? How long would you have waited to tell me—would you have said it at all?”

“I’d clarify if I knew what you were talking about,” he replies, and she feels a lurch of hesitation at the soft tone of his voice.

But then she remembers Itori laughing herself silly, going on about _why do I find tragedies so funny_ , the feed on the largest news channel in Tokyo focusing in on the smoking ruins of what used to be Anteiku—she remembers Touka, and the smell of fresh coffee beans, the rush of the first time a human customer smiled at her and thanked her for the service, and the sound of Kaneki crying in his sleep, or the warmth of him as he turned into her arms and she threaded her fingers through his hair—his white, white hair—and hummed a lullaby from the time when she still had a mother. She remembers the surprise she knew when he hugged her that last time, surprised at how strong he’d gotten over the course of a few short months, surprised at his willingness to, even then, risk himself for others.

She remembers, and she becomes _angry._

“Stop fucking around,” Ren threatens. It’s more of a snarl than coherent speech. “I’ll rip that smile off of you myself if you don’t _stop_.”

And the emotion just drops from his face, like the fall of a curtain rushing down over stage. His mouth grows relaxed, and he leans into the couch so he can lift his arms, languidly, and rest them on its back. He blinks at her, once, twice, and then sighs, as though he’s terribly put out by what’s happening and that she’s the problem here. He looks like a different person. A person she doesn’t _know_.

“Who tipped you off?”

Her fists clench at her sides. “It doesn’t make a difference.”

He stares at her for a moment longer with those blank eyes. “Itori. I should have known she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

“You’re the reason Ken is _dead_ ,” she hisses. He tilts his head at her in a movement she’s seen a thousand times before—she used to mark it as endearing.

“Well, technically speaking, I didn’t personally kill him,” Uta says. It infuriates her how calm he is. “I did pull some strings here and there, though.”

“Fuck your _strings!_ ” she explodes. A flush of heat passes through her as her kakugan activate. The rush of RC cells makes the skin on her shoulders itch. “You’re a _liar_!”

“Wow, you really have picked up some bad habits from that best friend of yours,” he observes. He moves one hand and bites at a hangnail, frowning when he doesn’t get it on his first try. “Don’t shout. I like my quiet.”

She rakes her hair back from her face, tying it away with an elastic band so she can see clearly. “I will shout as much as I want to shout. Was it all fake?!”

“Would you like it more if I told you it wasn’t?” Uta responds, answering a question with a question, as is typical of him. Another thing she—she missed as a warning. Fuck, she feels so _dumb._

“I want an _answer_ ,” Ren yells. It’s been so long since she’s raised her voice like this. “Tell me the truth. Tell me _the truth_.”

He looks away, up at the ceiling, his head lolling. His cardigan falls open. “I… don’t know.”

“That’s _not_ an answer,” she says, and she’s barely finished that sentence when his head whips back up. The suddenness of it startles her. There’s still no expression on his face, but the eyes are wide and what she sees there unsettles her.

“It’s all you’re going to get,” he murmurs, uncrossing his legs. The fabric whispers against the couch as he stands and makes his way to the kitchen counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. There’s always a pot ready. He likes—liked to keep it that way because he knows— _knew_ that she had come to enjoy coffee quite a bit, and her stint at Anteiku hadn’t helped with that newfound craving for it. He reaches for a mug, but by that time she’s crossed the distance and yanked him toward her by the collar of his shirt.

Something tears. She’s not paying attention.

“ _Don’t turn your back on me_!”

The mug clatters from his hands and shatters on the floor, and one of the shards is crushed to dust under the heel of her boot. Uta only watches her as she bodily lifts him and slams him against the closest wall. Bits of plaster drift down upon them, settle in his dark, fine hair, litter her shoulders. She can taste blood in her mouth—she doesn’t care.

“You lied to my face,” she says, shoving him back with each word. A crack grows in the wall behind him. “You kissed me, and—and held me and comforted me and laughed with me. You said you loved me. You’re _sick_.”

“I’ve been called that a few times, yes,” he notes. For some reason, he’s able to talk. “Did you believe me?”

She sucks in a sharp breath. “Who _wouldn’t_ have?”

He laughs. It sounds wrong. “Renji didn’t. He never did. Not as much a meathead as he looks, that one.”

Another shove. “I bet you thought it was funny. It must have been _hilarious_ to you. Why did you do it? _Why_?”

Uta pauses thoughtfully, like she doesn’t have a stranglehold on his neck. “I wanted to see if I could. Kaneki was close to you—or you were to him. Perhaps both? You were the backup plan. If he survived—hm. I wonder.”

That almost makes her grip slacken. Almost. “This was a _game_? This… all this for your entertainment? Everything that happened to Ken… it was you?”

He makes a beeping sound, emulating an annoying buzzer. “Guilty as charged.”

A smothered noise escapes her. Her eyes are burning. She hits him again, and this time an indentation appears in the wall. She hears a couple of his ribs crack. Branches caught under the weight of stone.

“Ouch,” he says impassively. He continues to watch her.

“Curse you. Why aren’t you fighting back? _Bastard_.”

“Because I don’t want to,” Uta retorts, and bile rises in her throat.

“You’re sick.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Insane,” she mutters, driving him back once more. She dislocates his shoulder and watches it pop back into place half a minute later. “You’re fucking… _insane_. You’d have done it, wouldn’t you? If Ken were still here—if he were still… you’d have _dealt_ with me. Wouldn’t you?”

That slightly irritated pinch to his brows comes back. “I don’t know,” he repeats.

“ _Shut up_!” Ren roars, adding another hand and hauling him above eye-level so she can smash him into the wall without looking at him. “Shut up, shut _up.”_

He coughs. “Feel better yet?”

“No,” is all she says before she spins around and launches him across the room.

He lands somewhere between the kitchen table and the beginning of the counter island by the stove with a thundering crash. He’s up within the next ten seconds, dusting off his sleeves and smoothing back his hair, picking the plaster from it and flicking it away with two fingers. She’s breathing so heavily—can track every _ba-dump_ beat of her heart. _Ba-dump, ba-dump._ It keeps going on and on. She kind of wishes it would stop. Then she wouldn’t have to look at this place anymore, or feel these things, or realize that for the thousandth time in the span of twenty-eight years, she’s been duped and used and _discarded._ Again. Again, again. Always again.

“Ah, I was right,” he says in an even voice. She looks up at him through the disarrayed jumble of her fringe, the hair that’s come loose from its tie. Her chest aches. “This expression does suit you. You should wear it regularly.”

She half-considers running him through right then and there, but her energy is gone. There’s nothing left. Nothing.

“Did you ever mean any of it? Ever? Even just… just once?”

He appraises her with the calculating gaze she’s seen him turn on masks and measurements and drawings and food—had he ever really looked at her the way she thought he did? Or—or was that just her seeing what she wanted to?

“You’ll be back to find out,” he predicts, slipping his hands in his pockets and supporting his weight on the counter. She has to get out of here.

“Maybe,” she says.

She doesn’t bother to shut the door when she leaves. It hangs open in her wake. She races down the stairs that lead to the studio— _thud thud thud—_ walks past all the smiling faces, the crying faces, the carnival masks and the jester masks and _every mask_ in this place. She can’t breathe.

She bursts out into the cool evening air, gulping it in like a man deprived of water drinks at an oasis, and it’s only then that she notices the tears.

 

…

 

_He looks down at her._

_“You enjoy this, don’t you?” he says. He’s had to put his sketchbook away because of her. She returns the stare, from where her head’s resting on his thigh. She smiles and draws her oversized sleeves together, hiding her fingers in them and bunching them up to the front so they can act as a makeshift muffler._

_“You’re the best pillow,” she tells him, and laughs a little when he lowers a hand to brush the bangs from her brow, and then to press a kiss to her forehead._

_“Rest well.”_

_“Mhm.”_

_She shuts her eyes, still smiling._

_She knows this is where she belongs._

_…_

Shuu’s _finally_ dropped off when someone knocks. Nori spares him a momentary glance before she patters downstairs to answer the door. It’s odd to be without her boots, but Shuu insists on no shoes inside the house—one of the things about being Japanese he hasn’t been able to shake. So it’s socks that muffle her footsteps as she walks through the foyer. The doorknobs in Shuu’s house are made out of some crystal-like material. Very shiny, and so very, very predictable. She sighs and then creaks the door open—and feels a small jolt of surprise when she recognizes her best friend.

“Ren?”

“Hey,” she says, trying to smile and failing miserably. There are red circles under her eyes, like she’s been crying for a long time, and the sleeves of her jacket are torn, hanging in shreds from her arms.

“What happened to you?” Nori asks, and then it clicks. “You went to Uta’s.”

“Yeah,” Ren says. A breeze ruffles her hair.

“I thought you were going to wait.”

“Yeah…”

“…You okay?”

Ren laughs, like the question is funny. “No. I don’t think—I… I’m going to go for a bit.”

Nori perks up at that. “What? Where?”

“Somewhere,” Ren mutters. “I have… I have to get away. I can’t stay. I fed Kaiju dinner, so you don’t have to worry about that. I hope Tsuki—Shuu is doing better.”

“He is,” Nori says, a bit at a loss for words. “He ate some today. Progress, I guess.”

“Give him my regards,” Ren suggests. She looks down at her scuffed shoes.

“I will.”

There’s a pause then, until Ren resolves to say whatever it is she wants to say. Nori’s expecting an explanation, or an excuse, but all she gets is a hug. A tight one. Ren presses her cheek to the top of Nori’s head while it happens. Her friend smells like vanilla and coconut oil, and the fabric of her shirt is soft against Nori’s nose. She’s reluctantly started to put her arms around Ren’s back when Ren pulls away. Her warmth fades with her. There’s something very unfamiliar in Ren’s expression, and Nori can’t decide whether it’s not a big deal or valid enough to worry about.

“Thanks,” Ren tells her. “For everything.”

She steps back, and Nori shocks herself by reaching out to grab one of Ren’s tattered sleeves.

“That sounds an awful lot like a goodbye,” Nori says. The words are awkward, but she can’t stop them. “Is it?”

Ren’s brown eyes dart down to the hand on her sleeve. Nori releases her, and then she attempts that smile again, but it looks weird and disjointed and entirely forced.

“I don’t think so,” she admits. “We’ll see.”

Nori watches her friend walk down the winding cobbled path leading to the entrance of Shuu’s house, watches Ren cross the street after opening the creaky iron gate, watches her draw her ratty jacket close—watches her disappear around the corner. She stands there for a while, looking even though she knows Ren’s gone out of sight, and when she shuts the door, fifteen minutes later, the tips of her fingers have grown cold.

It’s going to be a long winter this year.


	4. Unraveled

I’VE LEARNED THAT IT TAKES YEARS TO BUILD UP TRUST,   
AND SECONDS TO DESTROY IT.

…

 

 

_It’d started out innocently enough._

_She’d been dozing on her side while some soap opera or other played on low volume in the background, and he’d been working on a couple of new mask designs. A group of newcomers had arrived in Tokyo maybe a week ago, and sooner or later they’d come to HySy. He’s excited about one of the designs in particular – he always does like working on things that are carnival-inspired. She finds the clownish aspect of stuff like that kind of creepy, but she supposes to each their own. It’s not like it’ll matter in the long run anyway._

_Either way, she’d woken up, sat straight, rubbed at her eyes, and without thinking twice about it, had reached across the couch to get to the remote. She’d been halfway back to her seat before she realized he was watching her, silent and deliberate, and he’d smiled at her with the meeting of their eyes. He looks pretty in the television’s glow, she’d thought, and then with a disconcerting lack of hesitation, had leaned in to press her lips to his. He’d been surprised – she felt it in the tensing of his shoulders, but after that he’d pushed the sketchbook from his lap in favor of clasping her face._

_His hands were cold, and she hadn’t minded. The remote had slipped from her hand, forgotten, and she’d seated herself squarely on his knees, legs on either side of him, angling her head in a way that would let them come closer. New territory, but nothing she considered unpleasant—much to her delight. He’d traced a line down the side of her neck with one finger, nail dragging softly on the skin, and when he’d reached her collarbone she’d shuddered and broken away to giggle. She’s always been rather ticklish._

_And now she’s staring at him, breathing just a little harder than usual, feeling very warm and very—strange. His other hand is at her hip, holding her through the velvety fabric of her sweater. She can’t decide whether she wishes she wore pants more often or not. It’s—nice being this near to someone._

_Uta clears his throat. “We can stop, if you want.”_

_“Hm,” she says helpfully. She lays her palms flat on his chest and then bends down to touch an ear to his shirt. Ren can hear the steady_ bump-bump-bump _of his heart, all the way through her jaw and to the deepest cavity of her breast. It’s comforting, and as she listens, it speeds up._

_“What are you doing?” he says, laughing._

_“Making sure,” she answers him and then draws herself back up. Her fingers curl. “I don’t want to.”_

_One of his practically non-existent brows quirks up at her. The reflections in his kakugan are the same chilly blue of the light of the television. “Don’t want to…?”_

_“Stop,” she clarifies before kissing him again. She sighs when he brushes the hair from her shoulders, and her muscles clench—not unpleasantly—at that same hand sliding down to the back of her knee. Goosebumps prickle all over her. He pulls away to ask another question._

_“You’re sure?”_

_Ren takes a long inhale, filling her lungs with much-needed air. “I’m sure. If—if it’s you, I… don’t mind.”_

_He blinks at her, and there’s something startled in his expression. “…You’re adorable.”_

_She feels heat rise to her face. “I—I just trust you, is all.”_

_He smiles. She likes it when he does. She thinks it makes him look gentle. Sometimes she can’t believe how lucky she’s been._

_“That makes me glad to hear,” he says, swiping his thumb over the crest of her cheek._

_“I’m warning you,” she starts and bumps her forehead to his._

_“Oh?”_

_“I’ve, uh… I’ve never done this before. I may not be—very… good?”_

_He laughs again, moving in to peck the tip of her nose. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”_

_Her face is going to melt off, she knows it is. That’s going to be very messy. She shifts to the left and hears his breath catch._

_“Uh, before that,” she says, frowning. “I think I’m sitting on one of your pencils.”_

_He just looks at her, and she gets the feeling it’s supposed to be conveying some sort of meaning. She looks back, almost ready to ask for an explanation—and then it hits her._

_“Oh,” is all she manages. “_ Oh. _”_

_“And each time I think you can’t get redder… you prove me wrong._ Again. _”_

_“Be quiet,” Ren admonishes as he tugs at the collar of her sweater._

_She follows it, content to let him lead._

_…_

The days are blurring together into one long monotony of dull color and duller sensations.

She can’t tell how long she’s been out here. She doesn’t particularly care. Ren is used to sleeping on floors, being cold, being hungry—none of this is unfamiliar. The only difference is that back then, she would have done anything to survive. She ate whatever she was served, killed whoever she was told to kill, and endured whatever she was forced to suffer. Now, she doesn’t even feel remotely panicked at the idea of dying in the Tokyo streets. Maybe she should. But she doesn’t.

During the nights, the temperatures drop below zero. A day ago she woke up to fingers frozen in ice, and before she’d properly regained her wits, she’d snapped one of them off by trying to get up. She’d watched with a total dispassion as her index rolled on the icy ground by her feet, and she’d contemplated it for a moment before scooping it up and gnawing on it. If only she’d been as enthusiastic about self-dining as Tsukiyama. All the experience had gained her was the knowledge that she tasted strange—overly sweet and tough—but it had also kept her from having to hunt for food until the evening.

Her replacement index is warmer than the rest of the fingers on her right. That typically happens after they grow back.

She buries her nose in the high collar of her coat when a gust of wind cold enough to make her eyes water blows by. The chill in the air is bitter. It bites at her cheeks. Her lips are chapped. Her fucking _heart_ feels chapped. Poetic, she tells herself. Very poetic. The anger goes away at times, but then it comes back, and when it happens she could swear every last nerve in her body is on fire. Ren has a feeling she now knows what Nori means when she says “I’m seeing red.”

Sometimes she strays into places that are somewhat crowded, just out of curiosity—to see if she feels like being near people again, but wherever she looks, she sees happy faces. Friends preparing for Christmas, schoolgirls going home together, bundled up in the scarves given to them by the boys they like, mothers browsing for presents, children laughing—all living lives free of worry and fear. She wonders what that would feel like. Not having to sleep at night with the terror of not knowing if tomorrow could be the end. Not having to slum in gutters. Not forever stuck on the outside looking in, trying to imagine an unfettered existence devoid of hiding and lying—an existence in which being _born_ isn’t a crime.

There are trees going up in every store. They set another gigantic one in the square. She sat on a bench and watched men climb tall ladders to swathe it in wiring that shines with golden light, feeling the cold creep in through her sleeves and up her legs. Celebrating Christmas seems like a faraway memory from a different life. It involves warmth and quiet, and presents in glossy wrapping-paper. Mom had hugged her, going, “Merry Christmas, baby flower,” and then lifted the pink anorak in front of her, laughing at her gasp of joy.

Maybe, if she’d been a human girl, nothing would have had to change.

The CCG has gotten stricter on patrols. With protocol. With everything. She noticed it on her first night on the streets. Posters are everywhere—big, in bold white and black with red accents, full of information and warnings. _Ten signs someone you know may be a ghoul_. Telling people that ghouls may look human, though they are anything but— they’re predators. Killers. Murderers. Lesser than animals. Announcers appear on the colossal screens in downtown Tokyo, talking about ghoul biology, reminding the populace that they _are different than us, and are not to be taken lightly._

_Be on the lookout for anyone reticent to accept food. Younger ghouls are less proficient than their adult counterparts in lying, and are therefore more likely to tell inconsistent stories. Make note of repeated excuses or those reluctant to engage in social activity. Ghouls can only naturally ingest water and coffee free of additives. They are to be treated as potential threats at all times. Those aiding and abetting ghouls will be dealt with accordingly. Accomplices will be shown no mercy._

She doesn’t eat every time she kills. Doesn’t feel the need to. She doubts doves would taste all that good, anyway. Each one of them looks the same to her—or sounds the same. They say the same things. And they all carry important things that don’t belong to them. She can tell who and what the quinques they take are from by scent: older women, older men, little boys, little girls, koukaku, bikaku, ukaku, rinkaku—stolen things. Things that _aren’t theirs_.

The dove walking only a few feet ahead of her has a rinkaku in his dark briefcase. Who did he murder to get it? It’s funny that they have to brutalize the bodies of the dead to breach the physical gap in order to be able to kill ghouls. Irony has always been a big part of her life. It doesn’t seem to be preparing to leave her any time soon, either. She pulls her hood down further over her head, and with it, the ski-mask she picked out of a cardboard box a week ago. It smells of old sweat and cigarettes.

Her—other mask is sitting in her breast pocket, but she can’t bring herself to use it. She doesn’t think she ever will again.

“You’ve been tailing me for the last twenty minutes.”

She looks up to see the man has stopped and turned to face her. He has a calm face, marked with the lines of middle-age, and his dark hair is streaked through with silver at the temples. He looks old enough to have a family. How many families has he torn apart?

“What do you want?” he asks, hand tightening around the handle of his briefcase.

She doesn’t answer.

“Not outgoing, then. Large, too. What type could you be?”

Now she’s starting to hope he’ll shut up. Luckily, this street between apartment buildings is abandoned, if a bit narrow, but the dark is in her favor. This can be over quick if it goes well. The last investigator she took on hadn’t been experienced. A year ago, she may have felt guilty for killing a novice, but a year ago, Ken wasn’t dead, and she was still very much happy—happy about something that had never even remotely been a reality.

Stupid girl.

The dark threads of her kagune materialize around her left arm, streaming together and hardening into one cohesive shape, blue electricity crackling down its length.

“Koukaku,” the investigator says, sounding impressed. He whistles. “A hammer. That’s a first.”

“Are you still going to blab when your head’s ripped off?” she inquires, and he starts in surprise.

“Female… didn’t expect that, with your size. You are one big surprise.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a reply, opting instead for lunging at him with her kagune held high. She brings it down on the ground as he dodges out of the way, and the cement underneath her blow ripples like water and splits open. The investigator trips in the rift but regains his bearings in a heartbeat, and that’s when he activates the quinque. It rushes out at her in a cascade of brilliant green and scarlet, tearing at her defenses though it doesn’t break through. It’s going to take more than that to debilitate her.

Ren draws herself up to make a second offensive strike, and this time it makes contact. Sparks fly as the flat of her kagune smashes against quinque’s arc.

“That’s not yours,” she says. The investigator laughs.

“It is now. I made it mine. Pretty, isn’t it? The name’s Midori.”

“You talk too much.”

She presses forward. It doesn’t bother her that the quinque’s type supposedly will outlast hers. She’s hunted users of every kind, never losing, always living. Types may be greater than one another, but the one doing the fighting matters too. Playing on your own strengths can win you anything if you’re smart in the right ways, and the length of her life has relied a lot on being _smart_ —and it still wasn’t enough to keep her from being fooled. She keeps going back to that, again and again, and it feels like the sting of being reminded will never disappear.

The investigator retaliates, and she doesn’t move her hands out of the shearing path of the quinque. It shaves off two fingers on her right hand—the ring and the middle. Her fresh index will now have matching partners. The investigator’s triumphant grin fades when the bone and flesh regenerates. The nails come in last, black as her kagune, popping out of their cuticles like symbols on a slot machine.

“That’s—rinkaku speed healing. You’re a monster!”

“So I’ve been told,” she tells him, unimpressed. “Scared yet?”

He grits his teeth and attacks, at last apparently done with chatting.

“Humanity will not give in!”

He goes stumbling when she hurls her kagune into the quinque’s way. They meet halfway with a crunch, and cracks spider out from the point of contact to cover the glittering width of the quinque. He’s good in coordination and speed, but nothing extraordinary. He’s probably never met a ghoul that could pose too much of a threat, or else he wouldn’t still be alive. She’s curious—how many will turn up at his funeral?

The whites of the investigator’s eyes are clearly visible when she lets her kagune dissolve. Discs of black and blue float around them as she stretches out a hand, bats the quinque aside, not even flinching when it runs her shoulder through, and collapses the entire structure of his thorax with a single pound of the fist. There’s no blood. All the damage is internal. He crumples to the ground at her feet, only capable of staring up, panicked, his breathing harsh and gargled.

Ren reaches up and curls her fingers around the quinque’s handle. She pulls it free of her shoulder with a squelch and then holds it at arm’s length to observe it, admiring the gloss and depth of its colors. It really is pretty. Prettier now that it’s out of his hands. Pity that she had to hit it so hard.

“I’ll bury her,” she says, lowering the weapon. “More than you ever did.”

 Scarlet froths at the corner of the investigator’s mouth. “Mon…ster…”

There was a time when hearing that made her cringe. She just looks down at the dying human, the vermillion of her kakugan gleaming.

_That’s right. I… am ghoul._

 

…

 

_The lounge upstairs, above Anteiku, is the best place for writing lessons. Ren’s favorite spot is between the two cushions on the couch—she loves sinking into it and falling asleep there, knowing she doesn’t have to worry about keeping her guard up. Today she’s kneeling at the low table in the center of the room, next to Kaneki, watching him as he works._

_“This one?”_

_She tilts her head at the kanji Kaneki wrote out for her on the page, and then shakes it. “No, that’s not it.”_

_They repeat this process about ten or twelve more times before Kaneki finally sets the pen down and asks, “Do you remember if your mother named you after something specific?”_

_Blink. Blink._

_“A… flower?”_

_“The lotus?”_

_“I, ah, think that was it.”_

_He drags a hand down his face, fingers catching on his eyepatch. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”_

_She purses her lips. “You didn’t ask.”_

_Kaneki sighs, and then turns the piece of paper over to its fresh side. She listens to the sound of the pen scratching as he puts down the kanji she told him to. When he holds it up in front of her face, something in her head jogs. She raises a hand to trace a finger over Kaneki’s neat penmanship._

_“Does this look right?”_

_“Yes,” she says softly. “That’s how Mama used to write it. It’s beautiful.”_

_Kaneki’s cheeks go from pale to pink to cherry-red. “I-it’s nothing special, really. Let’s move onto your surname.”_

_“The other name that comes after someone’s name?”_

_“That one,” Kaneki confirms._

_“I remember Papa’s surname. Will that do?”_

_“Yeah, that’s fine.”_

_“Hitotose,” she answers, and edges closer to Kaneki so she can hover over his shoulder. “Mom used to say I could find the parts of it on a calendar—um, something happened before I could learn to write it right…”_

_“Well, it’s not a very common surname,” Kaneki points out. He gulps when he looks to the right and realizes she’s nearer than he thought she was. “Going off what you just told me… then it’s probably… spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Four kanji. Like this.”_

_Ren’s eyes boggle at the paper. “That’s a lot of squigglies.”_

_“All it needs is practice,” he promises. “I’ll write it again, this time slower. Here, a pen. I’ll teach you.”_

_“You’re a very kind person.”_

_He smiles at her. “I like to help when I can.”_

_…_

He’d assumed that after maybe more than an hour of—strenuous activity—he’d be too tired to wake up in the middle of the night, the way he has every night since the destruction of the 20th Ward. He was wrong.

For a terrible moment, he doesn’t know where he is. The disorientation seizes him. His heart starts to pound. And then he begins to recognize things—the nightstand, the outline of the couch against the wall, the shadows cast along the floor from the foot of the bed, and the racing in his head slows, if only by a bit. The city lights outside make part of the bedroom visible. It provides a reprieve from the constant terror of the shadows.

He lowers his face into his hands, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes. Sweat is cooling on his skin. Not the kind you build up when you’re working inside someone else, or the kind that collects on your brow during the strain of lovemaking—this is the kind that settles in your underarms and between the toes, the kind that brings a sour tang of fear to your mouth. He pulls at his tousled hair, hoping that somehow beyond hope the ache will yank him out of the grip of the dread. It doesn’t. In the few minutes after coming back to consciousness, he experiences some scant instants where he can’t remember what’s made him sick—or even who he is.

_Shuu Tsukiyama. Connoisseur. No. That’s gone. So is the Gourmet. Not bodyguard. Not host. Not friend, or enemy. Not anything._

He turns to look at the woman asleep beside him. Her white hair is spread along the dark pillowcase, caught between her arm and shoulder. The straps of the nightshirt she slipped into before lying down for the second time are askew, and her lips are just parted enough to reveal a hint of her criminally straight teeth. She’s perfect—a still life right there at his left, looking like something out of a painting, not a living, breathing person he interacts with and depends on.

He can’t tell whether her chest and the sheets atop it are rising and falling or not. Maybe if he paid better attention he’d be able to. But right now he isn’t. He can’t.

Shuu leans over and grasps at her shoulder and shakes. She doesn’t react. More panic. Another shake. After this one she mumbles a slurred sentence. Relief washes through him in a freezing blast, and though he tries his best to keep it at bay, he feels telltale heat that accompanies the gathering of tears. Nori sits up and wipes at her face, ready to say something, but he’s already moved in and dropped his head to the crook of her neck. If she wasn’t awake before, she is now.

One hesitant hand combs its fingers through his hair.

“You okay?”

He nudges his forehead to the pulse thrumming in her throat. Beating. Alive.

“I just—I had… I had to make sure…”

He doesn’t know if that clears anything up, but it’s all he can offer. She presses a kiss, feather-light, to the space between his eyes.

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

 

…

 

It started raining about twenty minutes ago.

She sits at the corner of the street with her back to the cement and watches the people go by. So many different patterned umbrellas. Do they really need all these variations? A girl carrying a bright pink umbrella covered in shiny black penguins walks past her. The color stands out among the others, a pop of brightness in a dismal sea of grey upon grey upon grey.

“Mom, I want cake.”

The tall lady next to the girl with the penguin umbrella looks down and laughs. “Didn’t I tell you we’d stop before we go home?”

“But I want it _now!_ ”

“Be patient, Mitsuru,” the woman says. She takes the girl’s little hand in her own, small in large, mother and daughter. “We’ll be there soon.”

They move ahead as Ren looks on under the cowl of her hood. Water drips from its rim. It’s icy—or the humans would probably find it so. Ghouls run hotter than humans, unless they’re hungry. She’s not. Her eyes follow more of the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Most, if not all, ignore her. Homeless people, she’s learned, may as well be invisible. She likes it that way. It suits her purpose.

More humans go by. Grey.

No pink.

 

…

 

“Man, she’s late,” Nori says, checking the clock on the wall.

“Is this usual for her?” Shuu asks from his seat. He’s daintily lifting his cup to sip at the coffee inside. She’d asked him not to wear his pinstripe suit as long as he was in store, so he’d relented and settled for a brown-and-blue ensemble instead. At least it doesn’t have polka dots. You wouldn’t guess by his behavior today that he’d been sobbing on her shoulder last night, gaunt with fear, unable to sleep. Amazing what grooming can do.

“No, Emiko’s good about being on time,” she answers. She clicks her long nails on the counter. _Tick tick tick._ They sound like the clock. “My first customer’s coming in at ten-thirty, and we open in five minutes. If she’s not here by then…”

“I will man the counter for you in that case, my dear. My social skills are second to none.”

“I have no doubt,” she says dryly. “But your clothes may scare them away.”

“A most disingenuous assertion—”

The bell of the store rings as the door swings open, and Nori turns expecting to find her receptionist. What she sees is not something she cares for very much.

“You,” is her greeting. She puts everything into making the word sound like an insult.

“Me,” Uta replies, tipping his sunglasses down over the bridge of his stately nose. His kakugan stare out at her, large and attentive. “I won’t stay long.”

“Good,” Nori declares. Behind her, Shuu leaves his cup and saucer on the tiny side-table and stands.

The wind of the door sliding shut makes Uta’s long coat billow. It reminds Nori of the effects B-rate directors use on their movie’s mastermind villains—stupid. Really very stupid.

“I don’t seem to recall booking an asshole for this morning,” she remarks, propping her elbows up on the counter. “No appointment, no loitering.”

“I’ll get to the point, then,” he says. “Where is she?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. She should have been here fifteen minutes ago.”

One of his eyes twitches behind the sunglasses. A tiny movement, but she catches it nonetheless.

“Where is Ren?”

Nori scowls at him. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, then, that’s your fucking problem, isn’t it?”

“It’s not like her to stay away for long.”

Nori laughs, but it’s harsh and grating. “I can’t imagine what might have happened to keep her away! Hmm, let’s see…”

“I’m not in the mood for games,” Uta says, his hands slipping deeper in his pockets.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was under the impression that games were all you fucking cared about. My bad,” Nori amends mockingly, making a gesture that implies surrender and apology. “Even if I did know where she’s gone, I wouldn’t tell _you_. Now, get out of my store before I _throw_ you out.”

“I’m afraid I will have to ask you to comply with my lovely lady’s request,” Shuu adds as he steps up next to her. “Being an artist yourself, you must understand the need for concentration and solitude.”

Uta inclines his head at them. “Of course. I’ll be by later.”

“No, don’t,” Nori says. “And if you come in again while the sign in the front says ‘closed,’ I will wipe the floor with you.”

He doesn’t even answer that—he swivels on his heel, opens the door, and disappears into the day outside. She savagely wishes he’ll get a sunburn bad enough to cause a ghoul pain. Shuu leaves a kiss on her cheek before returning to his seat to resume browsing his magazine and sipping at his coffee. Nori busies herself with the schedule book, trying not to think about where her best friend could be. It’s not working terribly well.

_Ring-ring. Slam!_

“I’m so sorry! There was so much traffic downtown—there’d been an accident and all the streets were backed up. Did I make it in time?”

“Breathe before you pass out,” Nori says to her receptionist. Emiko sighs and shrugs off her jacket to hang, and then wipes her flyaway hairs back with two hands.

“And then I dropped my purse outside… but a really nice guy with great ink picked it up for me. He was so sweet.”

That scowl from earlier makes its way back to Nori’s face. “Aw, I’m sure. A regular creampuff.”

“Did I miss anything?”

“Nah,” Nori says, waving Emiko’s worries off. “Just pretty up the counter and put your shit away. That’s all.”

“Okay! I’ll just go put stuff straight in the back, then. Hello, Mr. Tsukiyama!”

“Hello, miss.”

Nori nods as Emiko walks off, and her eyes drift to the corkboard where all of INC’s most important photos are displayed. Ren has her arms around Nori in the one at the bottom right—it’d been a split second thing coupled with Emiko’s uncanny talent for timing and camera, and Nori feels—or felt—it wouldn’t have been appropriate to put up because it didn’t showcase any art.

“But it does,” Emiko had said, flapping the photo under Nori’s nose. “The smile here is something you gave to her. I think it’s your best work yet.”

What does anyone say to _that_?

“Fine,” had been Nori’s take on it, and the photo in question hasn’t been taken down since.

Looking at it makes her heart twinge. She flips through another page of appointments, determined to put worrying out of her mind, though the questions creep through anyway.

_Where are you?_


	5. All That Remains

I’VE LEARNED THAT IT’S NOT WHAT YOU HAVE IN YOUR LIFE  
THAT MATTERS, BUT WHO YOU HAVE IN YOUR LIFE.

…

“You need to eat. _Properly._ ”

He looks at her like that’s the worst proposition in the entire world—like he’d rather chew glass instead of eating. She sighs in frustration and ruffles her hair furiously. She sits on the edge of the coffee table opposite the sofa, so he has no choice but to maintain eye-contact.

“It’s been almost a month. I love my vodka, but you can’t survive on it. You always pick at your food. I watch you, you know.”

Shuu’s face screws upward, a furrow forming between his fastidiously-kept brows. “I have no appetite.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Nori says and shakes her head. “I’m not going to let you starve yourself over what that motherfucker did. Ren’s already gone—he’s not going to shit on this too. I won’t allow it.”

“It’s all gone,” he murmurs, looking down at his clasped hands. “It’s all gone.”

“No, it isn’t,” she answers. She reaches out and grasps his chin, forces his head up. “You have _me_. I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes focus on her after a moment and he blinks. He has incredibly long lashes. “I didn’t know—after all this time, I didn’t know what it was like… to _have_ people. I thought… I thought…”

“I can guess what you thought,” she interrupts softly, laying three fingers on his mouth. “And _I_ know you eventually started caring about the kid. But I didn’t. I care about _you_ , and you’re still here. Which is why you’re going to eat, and why you’re going to get into some of your ridiculous clothes—and why I’m going to take you down to INC for the day. No more sitting around in here. Rip the bandaid off.”

Now he’s panicked. “I can’t—”

“You can,” she insists. “You can and you will, and I’ll help. You don’t have to do anything. Just sit down in the lounge with a magazine and some coffee, and then you’ll come home with me. That sound okay?”

His mouth tenses, draws tight, the corners puckering. “I’ll… try.”

“Good. That’s all I want.”

 

…

 

_“Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”_

_She barely restrains herself from just throwing her purse at him, wallet, cellphone and all. “I_ want _you to leave me alone. Got that?”_

 _The trespasser whose name she_ refuses _to use adopts a distraught expression. It’s almost as painful to look at as his suit. “I’m afraid that’s the one thing I simply cannot do. You’ve inspired an ardor in me that has been unmatched by anything in my life thus far. I must know you better. I absolutely must.”_

_“You’re going to get to know the floor better if you don’t get out of my way,” she warns, grinding one heel into the pavement and listening to the asphalt crunch under the point of her stiletto. “I’m serious. Back off.”_

_The amused quirk to one of his brows makes her want to punch something. “Or?”_

_“Or this time I’ll finish the job,” she growls and then proceeds to stalk past him, not bothering with trying to scare him away any longer. Maybe if she gets to her apartment and shuts him out he’ll eventually give up and leave. He can’t follow her all the way back, right? Right?_

_“Ah, you may say that, but I’m still here,” he says as he easily falls into step beside her. Curse tall people and their stupid fucking long legs and their stupid fucking effortless striding and why in God’s holy name is he still_ after her?

_“Don’t remind me,” Nori replies crabbily, trying to outpace him and failing miserably. Isn’t the usual reaction to a person breaking your face in fear? Fear and terror? Maybe a little bit of anxiety? Or a lot. A lot of anxiety works too. She doesn’t know—the people whose faces she’s broken in don’t get up for a second time, so she doesn’t have much to compare to. But she does know this—he’s not normal. Not by any stretch._

_“What’s your favorite color?”_

_“Fuck you.”_

_“A tasteful choice.”_

_Click-click-click. Her heels snap out a rhythm against the concrete. She wishes he’d stop doing that elegant weird gliding thing with his feet. It makes her feel short. She hates feeling short._

_“Do you have any particular preference concerning the fine arts?”_

_“I like listening to people scream. In_ pain _.”_

_“Something we have in common, then! What a lovely coincidence,” he replies, bright and cheery. Christ, he’s like something out of a commercial for window-cleaner._

_There’s the gate to her apartment compound. Salvation is at hand. She all but runs up to the keypad and is ready to punch in the code when she remembers he’s standing right behind her. And watching. She shuffles over to the side to block his view—and then she hears him take a step to the right, so the keypad is in his line of sight. Like fuck she’s going to let him see the code. He’s brazen as hell and has absolutely no shame. She’s sure that if he learned the code he’d just waltz right from door to door until someone told him what apartment she lived in. Nori moves to the side again. He does the opposite._

_“Fucking stop it,” she hisses at him, and then she steps up to the keypad and shields it with her purse_ and _body before quickly entering the passcode. The gate clicks open and she slides through and slams it shut in his face. She looks up at him, and annoyance flooding her from head to toe at the realization that he’s still smiling. “Now go away.”_

_“I’ll be back,” he informs her. He gives her an ostentatious overly-fancy bow, and she viciously hopes he knocks his skull on the bars of the gate. He doesn’t. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle. We’ll meet again.”_

_The leather of her purse squeaks as she squeezes the life out of it._

_“Let’s not.”_

_…_

She turned the light out twenty minutes ago, but his breathing hasn’t changed. He’s awake.

“Nori?”

She turns around to face him. His eyes are open, she can see that much, and his one hand is gripping his pillow so tight that the knuckles have gone bone-white.

“Yeah?” she says. The question is cut short when he lifts his other hand and brushes the back of his fingers over her cheek. That stops any sound or elaboration. Shuu is honest—intense, if she’d have to use a borderline flattering word, but these last few weeks, it’s become something different. Almost… tender. And she—she doesn’t mind, though a year ago the same treatment may have terrified her and sent her into isolation. How much things have changed.

“This will sound selfish—”

“That’s never stopped you before,” she whispers, and feels a buzz of satisfaction when that makes him pause and laugh a little.

“Yes, well—I want you to stay. I’ll… I’ll do anything. I don’t want to lose any more.”

“Haven’t I already told you that I’m hard to get rid of?” she asks. He combs the hair away from her face, and that causes this stupid small flutter in her stomach that’s about the last way she ever expected to react to another person. “You don’t have to do whatever you’re thinking of. I want to stay. So I’ll stay.”

“Would you mind staying forever?”

She blinks at him. His hand is warm. “Is that a proposal?”

His gaze is steady and resolute as he tucks a strand behind her ear. “I don’t know. Would you like it to be?”

 _I wouldn’t say no_ , is her first thought, and it startles her. She considers it for a moment, and then decides this isn’t a choice to make at one AM while exhausted and nearly sleepless. Her fingers curl around the hand at his cheek.

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” Nori answers, and for the third time this week, he smiles—really smiles. She’s been counting.

“It’s already technically morning,” he says. She smacks him on the chest.

She tries to avoid grinning like an idiot. “Patience is a virtue, moron.”

He moves closer and kisses her. There’s no force or urgency behind it, not like the usual ones, and she finds she likes it just as much. When he breaks away, he presses his lips to her brow as he draws her near. He’s always been more of a cuddler than her—she’s learned how to deal with it, even enjoy it. His arms link together around her back. He rests his cheek against the crown of her head and sighs, and she hears something she hasn’t for a long time in the sound.

_I love you._

 

…

 

_Ren’s the one who opens the door. Nori is at the coffee table poring over the month’s bills, and she only looks up when Ren makes a happy squeak-squeal of delight._

_“What? What is it?”_

_Ren bends to pick something up from the doorstep of the apartment and shuts the door behind her with the swing of one bare foot. Nori can’t see her face when she stands straight because it’s obscured by a mountain of—flowers?_

_“Look!” Ren’s muffled voice says from behind the Fuji-tall pile of roses and lilies and magnolia blossoms. “_ Flowers! _”_

_“I can see that,” Nori returns, deadpan. “And I can guess who sent them, too.”_

_“He’s so nice,” Ren comments before she trips on her own pair of shoes set out by the doorway. The flowers sway and petals go flying, but Ren doesn’t relinquish them. It looks like she has stems and shit for a head now. “Whoa!”_

_“Don’t kill yourself,” her friend cautions, picking up her mug to take a sip of coffee. “‘Nice’ isn’t the word I’d use. Stalker, maybe. Creepy._ Bizarro.”

_The bouquet jiggles as Ren talks. “I think he likes you. Why else would he haven’t given up yet?”_

_“I dunno. Determination—or he wants to prove something. Either way, I don’t care.”_

_“Haven’t you already shared a bed, though?”_

_Second time she’s made Nori spray coffee all over the table and her own shirt this week. “Ren, what the fuck?”_

_More petals cascade around Ren’s feet, settling on her toes. Nori still can’t see anything above her elbows. “It’s true! Ever since you explained the dating to me I’ve been on your computer doing some research, and upon further analysis deduced what really happened on the Saturday night you were out until six AM. The Psychiatric Institute of Japan—they’re based here, in Tokyo!— says that emotional attachment typically occurs after coitus and is needed to sustain a romantic connection. Some people think attraction and affection are all because of increased serotonin and dopamine levels and chemical reaction, but I believe it’s more complicated than that. Don’t you?”_

_The only response Nori can muster at that is “Who the hell says ‘shared a bed’ in this day and age?”_

_“I read it in a book called ‘The Scarlet Letter.’ Isn’t it a pretty sentence?”_

_“I guess,” Nori says weakly._

_“It’s perfectly natural to develop feelings after intercourse. Almost all mammalian mating rituals and patterns indicate something similar transpires in over six hundred and fifty vertebrate species. It’s very simple. Where’s the table? I can’t see under all these leaves.”_

_“Two steps to your right,” Nori answers. She feels like she’s been clubbed over the head with a mace. It’s a sensation that’s normal to have around Ren._

_“Thanks.”_

_“You’re wrong. I don’t have_ feelings _for him.”_

_“Okay,” Ren concedes as she gropes around to find the corner of the table with one hand._

_“I hate it when you do that.”_

_“What?”_

_“Say ‘okay’ like that. I know you disagree and you’re waiting to be proved right and you just—argh!”_

_“Several psychologists observe that specific personality types react adversely to the concept of long-term relationships. That’s natural too.”_

_“I really like how you always manage to unwittingly bash me and everything I stand for,” Nori grumbles, setting her mug down with a clink._

_Ren finally lays the bouquet to rest on the table and Nori laughs loudly when her face comes into view._

_“Is something the matter?” Ren asks, and Nori points at her._

_“Your nose.”_

_Ren rubs at it with the back of her hand, smearing the yellow pollen there. Her expression grows strained, her eyes shut, and—_

_“Achoo!”_

_Nori sticks her tongue out. “You deserved that.”_

_Ren still achieves looking stately and righteous though she’s dressed in nothing a horrendous pink baggy sweater, a pair of ratty boxer shorts, and the tip of her nose is colored deep, deep ochre._

_“So do you want to talk about—”_

_“No.”_

_“—but he left you the—”_

_“_ No! _”_

_“Where do you keep your vases?”_

_“No—wait, what?”_

_“Your vases. I want to put the flowers in a vase.”_

_“Throw them out.”_

_“I won’t!”_

_“And just where are you going to put them if I let you keep them?”_

_“Where you’re working. So you can look at—”_

_“I am going to hit you. I am going to hit you so very hard.”_

_Ren doesn’t seem fazed by the threat. “Do you want some more coffee?”_

_“Yes. Please.”_

_“I’ll get you a refill. And_ then _we can talk—”_

 _“_ Ren!”

 

…

 

She locks the door of INC with one decisive twist. The lock clicks. She turns around and shoves her hands in her pockets, cursing the cold. Her sigh becomes a puff of white that floats away above her head. Shuu offers to give her his scarf. It’s checkered. She refuses.

The sun sets earlier now—at around five o’clock, making way for the darkest evenings of the year. Shuu insists on linking their arms while they walk—engagé. That’s apparently the French word for walking arm-in-arm, because _every_ language has a specific word for walking arm-in-fucking-arm. She thinks about something that makes her nails dig into the soft velvety fabric of his overcoat.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and it sort of frightens her how easily he picks up on the slightest discomfort.

“I just—it’s a month and a half now since Ren…”

“I see,” he says. “You don’t have an idea of where she could have gone?”

“No. She came by your place the week after—everything happened—and then she… she walked away. I watched her go. Maybe I should have stopped her.”

“It’s not your fault,” Shuu interjects, laying his free hand on her own. He laces their fingers together. “Miss Ren made a decision. And if you must blame someone, blame the mask-maker. He caused it all. He killed Kaneki. He ruined _everything_.”

That makes her grip on him stronger. Her attempt at comfort.

“I haven’t seen him since then. I know Ren tried to rip his head off.”

He scoffs. “A pity she stopped before doing so.”

“Agreed,” Nori says. Just thinking about it makes her angry. “I want to feed him his spleen. Motherfucker.”

Shuu kisses the side of her head. “Your temper is endearing.”

“My temper nearly turned you into wall-paint,” she reminds him. “It still can.”

“I do not doubt it.”

“You’d better not.”

They walk for another minute or so in silence, and Nori looks up at the colors of the sunset in the sky. There’s not much of a horizon here in Tokyo, where everything is concrete and skyscrapers and pavement, but the sun is always visible—its effects are always visible. Ren liked seeing every single one. She swore to, in fact. She’d said she hadn’t seen many since the time she’d been with her mom, and that’d been very long ago. She’d sit on the cushioned windowsill, chin resting on the top of her knees, staring out at the dying light with childlike fascination. Many things fascinated her: cellphones, televisions, remote controls, keychains, ATMs, laces on boots, reflections, books—even random shit like plumbing and the Tokyo sewer system.

Nori hadn’t understood just how little she’d appreciated sunsets until Ren came around. She wonders if Ren is watching tonight’s, wherever she is.

Nori misses her.

“She’ll be back,” Shuu says suddenly, drawing her attention.

“You sound mighty certain.”

“That’s because I am.” Shuu looks ahead. He has a really pleasant profile. Straight nose, not too jutting of a chin, pretty eyes, and perfectly proportioned lips. He’s disgustingly handsome. “She may not come back for the mask-maker. But she will for you. The girl loves you more than anything. As do I.”

That makes two things happen—heat rises in her cheeks and throat, and tears spring to her eyes. Living around Shuu and Ren has screwed up all her radars and every scrap of (mediocre, she will admit) emotional control she has.

“You’re both completely fucking hopeless, you know that?”

That doesn’t come out as rough as she’d have liked it to, so she turns her head away and clears her throat.

“It’s a passable existence,” Shuu assures her. “I seem to get along fine.”

“That’s debatable,” she says, but that just gets her another kiss. “Stop doing that.”

“No.”

 

…

 

_“I’ve decided…”_

_Ren looks up at her from her steaming cup of coffee. She’s sitting at the opposite end of the table on the floor, legs crossed. “You’ve decided…?”_

_“Let me finish,” Nori reprimands, flapping a hand at her. “I’ve decided to give him a chance.”_

_Ren’s wide eyes grow even wider. “You—really?!”_

_“Why do you sound so surprised?” Nori says, but Ren isn’t listening. She’s putting her mug down and then shuffling closer across the floor on her butt to stick her face in Nori’s personal space._

_“Tell me more,” Ren says._

_“There’s really nothing else to tell,” Nori splutters. “Just that.”_

_“But you’ve been hiding this entire week,” Ren points out. Nori would rather not remember that. “You dove behind the couch when I answered the door. That was funny. I really want this to go well for you. I want you to be happy. You deserve it. You’re awesome. I love you.”_

_“Try not to explode,” Nori tells her, not being able to contain a bit of her laughter. “I didn’t know you approved so highly.”_

_“I like seeing you active and engaged and interested,” Ren says. The words are bubbling out of her kind of like the way carbonated drinks effervesce and pop. “I think he’ll be good for you.”_

_“Even if he brought me a jar of human eyeballs?”_

_“Even if he brought you a jar of human eyeballs.”_

_Ren gazes at her for a moment longer before bursting into joyful giggles and launching herself at her friend. Nori’s breath whooshes out of her in a noisy, unflattering “ack!” as Ren squishes her and rocks side to side._

_“If I’d known this was going to make you so touchy I wouldn’t have done it,” Nori says into the wool of Ren’s sweater. A thread of it gets caught in her teeth. “Aw, fuck, ew! Ew!”_

_“I wish I could take you out for cake. Isn’t that what humans would do?”_

_Ugh, her_ teeth! _“Ren—”_

_“Or maybe some drinks? We could do that, couldn’t we?”_

_“Ren!”_

_“Yes?”_

_Nori moves back out of Ren’s arms and the sweater goes with her, the strand running and growing longer the more she pulls it. The thread’s jammed between her two front teeth and tangled in her necklace. Ren’s smile fades into mortification._

_“_ Help me.”

_“Oh. Oops.”_

 


	6. Where We Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> plot twist: Ren is actually the Count of Monte Cristo.

I’VE LEARNED THAT OUR BACKGROUND AND CIRCUMSTANCES  
MAY HAVE INFLUENCED WHO WE ARE, BUT WE ARE RESPONSIBLE  
FOR WHO – AND WHAT – WE BECOME.

…

 

_Week three. Day five. Afternoon. Is it? She can’t tell. She never can tell._

_“Talk to me,” she says as they strap her into the chair. “Please talk to me!”_

_None of them act like she’s there at all. They speak about her, but not_ at _her. Always to the others. She hears them discussing the best way to proceed, how long the entire thing should last—how far they can push her before it becomes dangerous._

_“Our only juvenile subject,” they keep repeating, like it should mean something, and she can’t figure out why it would be important. She just wants someone to look at her. She doesn’t want to be invisible. She puts her head down and screams, kicking her feet though all it achieves is the leather rasping at her ankles. Ren screams until she can’t scream anymore. Nothing happens. One of the doctors tilts her chin up, and then they draw the strap that goes around her head over her brow. Not that one. That one means pain, worse than the usual._

_Her voice is nothing but a howl now._

_“Talk to me! Talk to me!”_

_A tall man in a white coat makes a disapproving sound. “Prepare the RC inhibitor, if you would be so kind. Let’s do this quickly, gentlemen. I’m starting to get a headache.”_

_She tries to turn away when another doctor wearing long gloves and a scary mask lifts a syringe full of green liquid. Green like grass. She knows what that does. That stops the fixing, stops the thing that makes the ow go away quick. Whatever is cut off stays cut for hours. She doesn’t like it. When is Mom going to come for her? She wants to go home, and sleep next to Teddy, and pet Mrs. Tanaka’s cat, and listen to the music Mom calls ‘classical.’_

_The needle doesn’t ever go to places that don’t hurt. The doctor pulls down her lower eyelid._

_“Stop! Not again!”_

_“Oh, for the love of God, be quiet,” the man next to him admonishes, and it makes her burst into laughter._

_“You talked to me—thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”_

_Mom told her that when people do nice things for you, you always have to say thank you, but the man doesn’t look like he’s been thanked—he looks disgusted. He just turns away and the laughter fades, and then the needle comes. Her hands and feet tense, pulling against the restraints, shaking and shaking until the chair is rattling—she looks up, up at the bright light and then the sharpness goes through her eye. It makes everything burn and she sees black. The heat spreads and spreads and she sweats, trembling, gasping._

_She blinks. Something warm and not-tears trickles down her cheek, and then—she tastes metal. The doctor has wedged a cold shape into her mouth._

_“We’ll start at fifteen joules and work our way upward. Administer the muscle relaxant.”_

_“No anesthesia?”_

_“Not yet. It may interfere with the inhibitor. Let’s chart the brainwave activity while the subject’s awake, first. We can do the rest later.”_

_She attempts to talk around the thing between her teeth and the resulting noise is a hybrid of a gargle and a whimper. They’re attaching sticky trailing wires to the skin underneath her hair. These are new. She doesn’t know what they do. She’s scared. She’s so scared. The people in white crowd around her, blocking out the light from above, and the entire time only one thought pounds in her mind, over and over._

_I just wish someone would talk to me._

_Just… look at me._

…

 

He comes around to the sight of a dingy room.

It smells like dust and mold, and he coughs—that’s when he begins to feel the true magnitude of his headache. He doesn’t… he can’t remember. He was walking home, he took the left turn, stopped at the pharmacy for the antihistamines, and—darkness. Something had hit him. He’s sitting, he realizes, and when he tries to get up, he _can’t_. He’s tied to this chair in the middle of a badly-lit, vacant room, and he has no idea how he got there. Panic starts to set in. He can’t move his feet, either.

“Awake?” says a quiet voice, and he starts so badly the chair rocks back. The shadows in the far corner of the room move. The person stops right before the ring of light cast by the light bulb suspended above him. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Doctor Kyoya.”

He clears his throat, hoping that it’ll help him get past the dryness in his mouth. “Who are you? What do you want? If it’s money, I have plenty. I’ll give you the pin-code to my bank account.”

“I don’t want your money,” they say. He thinks it’s a woman. He can’t be certain. Surely a woman couldn’t be that tall. “Not from _any_ of your accounts. I want something much more… substantial.”

“Whatever it is, I can give it to you.”

The person snorts in contempt. “Don’t make promises you won’t feel like keeping later.”

“Why am I here?”

Silence. He’s not surprised she knows his name. He’s not what he’d consider famous – not to anyone outside the CCG. Is she linked with them? They wouldn’t apprehend him like this. His work was _valuable_.

“This is rather dramatic, don’t you think?”

She draws up another chair from the corner of the room. Its feet scrape noisily against the grimy ground. She sits on it backward, propping her elbows up on the back, and then she leans into the light. The woman—because it _is_ a woman—has soft features and large, dark eyes. He’s sure they’re brown, but in this gloom, they look black, without a pupil or distinguishing colors. Her lashes are long, and her fine hair is caught in the high, worn collar of her jacket, resting in the spaces between the press of her arms.

“No one’s going to hear you, you know,” she says, blinking at him. “If you scream, that is. This place is deserted. I like it a lot.”

His mouth goes dry. “Why would I scream?”

“Because that’s what happens when someone jabs a needle in your eye.”

A bead of sweat trickles down his temple. “I can give you anything…”

The woman looks at him again, but this time it’s more unsettling than curious in nature. “I already have what I want tied to a chair. All I have to do is play with it. Do you know what happens to toys that kids get bored of, Doctor Kyoya?”

He tries to swallow. “My son keeps all his toys.”

She laughs a very light and lovely laugh that is supremely out of place here. “Your son must be very special, then. Most children throw them away. They’re easily bored, but they’re children. That’s what children do—get bored easily. I had no toys.”

“I’m… sorry to hear that.”

The woman tilts her head to the side. He’s seen his younger daughter make the same motion while looking out a window. “I find that hard to believe. I assaulted you, knocked you out, and brought you here. You’re attempting to appeal to my emotions by mentioning you have family—or by pretending to be sorry for something you know nothing about. You’re rather shallow, aren’t you?”

That forces a hysterical chuckle out of him. His shoulders are starting to get sore. “I’m doing my best with what I can.”

“It would be admirable if I didn’t know you better,” the woman says. Her fingers drum against the back of one arm. “Did you go to Investigator Kobayashi’s funeral? I heard the eulogy was very moving.”

The sweat at the back of his neck turns cold. “You’re a ghoul.”

“And your memory is no better than hers was,” she remarks, sounding disappointed. “I thanked you a long time ago for talking to me. You were the first one who ever did. It made me very happy.”

He’s lived his life trying to forget that.

“The facility burned down,” he says through the sour taste on his tongue. “You can’t be her. You can’t have survived.”

“I’d show you the scar, but it’s changed a little since anyone saw it last,” she says and shrugs. “You should take more credit for the fruits of your labor. If your boss hadn’t shoved bits of my dead mother down my throat, the kakuja armor wouldn’t have been half as strong. I should thank you again, but I don’t really feel like it.”

He can barely breathe. Subject Sixteen had been terrifying as a child—generous regenerative abilities, a promising koukaku release that could smash through almost everything set out before it, and an insane one hundred percent success rate on kill missions. They’d taken biopsies and samples without count. They’d gone through cycles of nutritional denial, forced confinement, disturbance of circadian rhythms, and sensory deprivation. They’d brought in parts of hand-picked specimens from the Cochlea Containment Center to feed Sixteen and studied their subsequent effects. They’d taken scans and x-rays and worked in a schedule of electroconvulsive treatments to reduce inhibitions and impair memory retention.

They’d _tortured_ her.

And now she’s here.

“You look a little pale,” Sixteen observes. “Feeling alright?”

His heart is beating so hard that his chest hurts. “Are you going to kill me?” he asks. That must be the stupidest rhetorical question he’s ever put forward.

“Yes,” she answers simply. She stands and pushes the chair aside. “Though I’ll have to wait a while and get rid of some small fry until I can get to the next person on my list. You’re going to be an unfortunate casualty in the war against the monsters, Doctor.”

He looks up at Sixteen, at the woman who used to be a girl, a girl who used to be a project. He supposes this could be categorized as a workplace hazard.

“You won’t consider letting me go?” he says, and a corner of her mouth curls up in a small smile.

Black bleeds into the sclera of her eyes. Soon the irises are scarlet, bright, pinpoints of red in a sea of ebony.

“No.”

The good doctor hangs his head as the tears fall.

“Had to see.”

He takes a deep breath, and—

 

…

 

_Nori watches Suzume fold another origami crane. This one’s in pink paper._

_“I don’t see why you bother,” she says, and Suzume’s hands pause. Her sister’s dark, finely-cut hair is tied back in a modest ponytail that complements her pretty face._

_“And here I was going to say I wish you guys could attend,” Suzume murmurs. Her fingers trace along the neatly-folded neck of a blue crane. “It’s a recital. My friends are going to be there, and I like singing. It’s fun.”_

_“Fun,” Nori repeats, tasting the word. She stirs the spoon in her coffee mug, listening to it clink on the sides. “Fun… and dangerous.”_

_Suzume sighs. “Not this again. I get enough of it from Mama.”_

_“Well, you’ll get it again. You’re probably the only ghoul there. What do you think your precious friends would do if they knew about you?”_

_Suzume’s mouth draws into a tight line, an unhappy expression that comes around every time she’s trying to hold back something negative. Nori always seems to be the only one who can bring that out of her. She wishes Suzume would understand—or at least try and see things from her point of view. Her little sister has been the one out of all of them to take the most after their father. Too kind, bordering on idealistic—too eager to believe in the good in everyone. It’s a world Nori sometimes wants to visit._

_“I don’t think it matters,” Suzume says, her tone of voice stiff. “Seeing as they’ll never find out.”_

_Nori leans forward and abandons her coffee mug to instead lace her hands together and let them hang loosely between her knees. “How do you know that? Besides, wouldn’t you rather have friends that_ really _know you? All of you?”_

_“I’d like to have the friends I can get,” Suzume replies curtly. She folds the next crane with almost vengeful force. “And right now, I do. I love them, and they love me—what they have of me, anyway. Isn’t that enough?”_

_“Why’re you asking me?” Nori shoots back, and regrets how flippant that sounds. “I thought you were totally sure about them. Or are you?”_

_Suzume stands, nearly overturning her chair as she does so, and the slam of her hands on the table is loud enough to startle even Nori. There are tears glistening in her eyes._

_“I just want to be happy! I just want to be normal!”_

_“Suz—”_

_“No!” she interrupts, turning on her sister with a flare of her sundress. “I’m tired—tired of always hearing about how I’m stupid, and how I should hate humans, and why nothing I ever do is going to count. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of_ you.”

_Nori jumps to her feet, hands clenching. “I never said you were stu—”_

_“You don’t have to!” Suzume yells. The last word is broken and distorted by the sharp cut in volume. “Don’t talk to me. You ruin_ everything. _”_

_She storms out of the living room, the thunder of her steps making the paintings on the walls jar, and Nori hears her slam the front door open and shut. By then, the guilt’s started setting in. There’s never any change when they argue—no new conclusions. Just more of the same old cycles and reactions. Maybe they are too different to be the friends Dad wants them to be._

_Maybe that’s true—and if only the reality of that made Nori love her any less, everything might have just been easier. But it doesn’t, and she doesn’t, so Nori’s left there in the middle of the living room looking at nothing like a grade-A moron, and feeling like one, too._

_Great. Just great._

…

 

There is no grave.

No time for it. No body.

The way she pays her respect to Suzume is by thought. Thought and more thought. There’s not much else left. She doesn’t talk about it, whenever her family calls. She doesn’t think they can. There’s an empty space where Suzume used to be. A visible vacancy. They’ve been cheated out of a life beside her. Chise won’t have enough to remember, and it’s a crime. Nori had cleared out her clothes. Mom had stopped halfway through to hold Suz’s favorite lavender dress, to cry into the fabric and say so lowly, “It still smells like her.”

She’d offered to do the rest. Mom had drifted from the room, lost. She would have been happy to live out the rest of her life without knowing what Mom looked like under the weight of grief like that. She won’t be able to forget it. Not now—not in the future. Not ever. Nori recognizes the look on Shuu’s face in the weeks after the raid on Anteiku. It’s full of loss and exhaustion and the emptiness that comes after too much emotion.

“How do you do it?” he says one day, and she has to stop sketching at one of the designs for a client next week. The light in the living room of her apartment is bright enough for her to be able to see what she’s working on, but with the blinds down the warmth of it is undeniable.

“How do I do what?” she asks. He stirs in his seat on the couch—a place Ren liked to occupy, while she was still here—and drops his eyes to the floor. There are red circles underneath them.

“You laugh, and smile, and you act like everything’s alright. Even when you lost someone incredibly dear to you, you… didn’t seem any different than usual. I can barely get up in the morning.”

She stretches and cracks her knuckles, trying to find a good way to respond. “I didn’t have a choice. No one at work knew about—what happened, so I had carry on the way I did before. I couldn’t risk putting my family into more danger, or jeopardizing what I had. It wasn’t an option… so I didn’t treat it like one.”

“I see,” he murmurs, and falls silent.

“I know it doesn’t sound like much, but you… you at least have the right to be sad. I couldn’t be. For my sister. You have that freedom. It’s not bad to grieve. You apparently have to do that to move on. Maybe that’s why I haven’t.”

She laughs after that and runs a hand through her hair nervously.

“I’ll be sad for both of us, then,” he says.

“That does sound like something you’d say. Be sad all you want. Just as long as you can get back to being chipper, I’ll be fine with it.”

“I’ll try,” he assures her with the beginning of a grin. It’s a sight she’s glad to see.

“Good,” she declares, and then goes back to work.

 

…

 

_“Ren, do you remember what these were called?”_

_She crouches until she feels the cool, wet ground of the garden brush at her knees. “Um,” she says and stares at the flowers. They’re big and puffy and there are very, very many of them on the same branch. They turn pretty when it’s winter-time. Pink. Her favorite color._

_“Hay… hah… hydrangeas?”_

_Mama smiles, like the sun, and it makes Ren happy. She knows she’s right when Mama smiles._

_“Well done, little miss. Hydrangeas! Do you want to help me plant the tulips?”_

_“Yes!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together. Tulips are the funny things that grow from balls in the ground. She loves digging the holes for them, though sometimes she makes her dresses very dirty and Mama needs to wash them longer than usual. The garden is Mama’s home. It has every color and every smell._

_“Run along and get your boots,” Mama says. Ren stands and runs toward the open front door._

_“Papa! Papa!”_

_There’s a clatter from the kitchen, a ring of mugs clashing together. “What is it?”_

_“Need my boots. Mama says I need my boots!”_

_“Saya?”_

_“It’s alright, she’s going to help in the garden.”_

_“Ren—here.”_

_“Papa, I want the pink ones.”_

_Saya laughs when her husband sighs. “Fine. Wait here.”_

…

 

Both of them are little more than impressions now.

She tries remembering them while she sits under a bridge, listening to the people go by above. It’s cold, but she doesn’t mind. She finds it refreshing. Mama’s face is somewhat clearer than Papa’s. She recalls the rough of his hands, and the warmth of his embrace, and the feeling like lifting her was no effort. She used to make him spin her around, playing at being an airplane, until he was sick and needed to sit down, waiting for his balance to come back. He’d always do it for her. For the little miss. He didn’t much like flowers, though Mama loved them, and he sneezed a lot whenever she’d put up new ones in the kitchen.

The house is something she remembers even less. There are vague feelings and bits and pieces of what might have been details, once upon a time, but all that comes to her is—tall, dark door. Cold kitchen floor. Pretty lights. Pink boots. White curtains caught in a summer breeze, glowing. The smell of Mama’s preferred black tea.

There was a time when she couldn’t remember anything at all. She’d go from action to action, forgetting what she’d done a second earlier, getting stuck repeating things until an investigator had to step in for her. They’d stopped the shock therapy after an entire week of that. For a few months, she’d thought they’d taken away Mama and Papa forever—but it came trickling back, shard by shard of a shattered puzzle until everything was more or less in place, and then she spent nights staying awake trying to remember more. Though everything after she was taken lies before her in sharp, icy clarity, what was there before—what was most _important_ —is fading away.

She’d dreamed, once, that Mama had found her. The facility had been empty—all doors open. Mama had taken her hand and walked her out the front entrance. No collars. No investigators. And Papa had been standing at the end of the hall, waiting for them in the sunlight. It’d felt right. Waking up became the dream instead, and she’d beaten her head and hands bloody against the white wall to fight off the idea that _no one was coming for her._

They’d increased her dosage of sedatives after that. She had slept for days, passing in and out of consciousness, losing all sense of time and reality.

Ren tucks her hands into her sleeves. Christmas is coming. Her list is getting shorter.

She can’t think of a better present. 


	7. What I've Done

I’VE LEARNED THAT WE ARE RESPONSIBLE  
FOR WHAT WE DO, NO MATTER HOW WE FEEL.

…

 

It’s been a month and fifteen days since Ren stormed out of his apartment.

The depression in the wall where she lifted and slammed him is still there—he should probably call in someone to fix it, but the inconvenience of it puts him off the idea. He’s not in the mood to make up stories and be creative about excuses at the moment.

In fact, he hasn’t been in the mood for just about anything for a while now, and it’s frustrating. More frustrating than anything he’s ever known. Challenges come in two forms: artistic and physical. Solving the first comes naturally to him. Those of the second kind require thought and improvisation, subtlety and deception. His favorite. She was one of them, but he doesn’t feel satisfied.

That’s a first, and that frustrates him as well. All things seem to be lately is _frustrating._ He can’t concentrate. He feels like he’s waiting for something—but he isn’t. Or at least he tells himself he isn’t. He hasn’t waited for anyone or anything his entire life. He won’t start now. Everything went the way it should have. As planned. That always leaves him pleased, if only faintly, and he is—just not as he _usually_ is. It’s not good enough.

Uta stares down at the design sketched on the page of the notebook on his lap, at the neat shadowing on the curve of the mask. The lines look right, but they don’t make _sense_ in his head. _It’s not good enough_.

He’s never distracted. He’s never confused. He doesn’t like being either, and likes not knowing what caused it even less. Determined, he pulls the pencil from the ribbing of his notebook and goes back to detailing the top of the mask. It’s alright for half a minute, and then he reaches over to the side-table to grab his cup of coffee. His hand brushes against a pile of papers and he sighs, annoyed, and gropes around for the handle of his mug. What he grasps at instead is something soft. Underneath the haphazardly-stacked sheaf of papers is a woolen scarf, tasseled, pink, and studded with small knitted flowers.

_“Wait, wait, let me—it’s long enough to wrap around twice. Come closer. Sorry, I’m a little taller—there. See? Warm, right?”_

The sight of it sends a shock of something hot and unpleasant through him. His hand recoils, as though the touch of scarf on the back of his fingers burned him rather than soothed him. It’s her. It’s all her fault, and a part of him hates— _loathes—_ that he even so much as vaguely cares about it. About her. About anything. Why is she different? Where is she? Why hasn’t she come back?

 _Snap_.

He blinks at the broken pencil in his hand. He lets the halves drop and proceeds to watch as his healing factor pushes the splinters stuck in his skin out, rejecting them the way a tide rejects driftwood, leaving it caught between the rocks, castoff and lonely.

Wrong. It’s wrong. He pushes the notebook off his lap and crosses his legs, looking to the window and worrying at the ring in his lip. Bad habit.

She has to come back. All her things are here—the scarves, the sweaters, the silly shoes, the flats, the fluffy slippers, the boxer shorts and the ponchos; the baubles and the picture books, the sakura shampoos and the photographs. Her cellphone is here, too. It’s sitting on the nightstand next to his bed, where it’s been since the day she left it here. It’s pink, of course, and she’s hung a little bell charm from it, a tiny hamster figurine. Her _friend_ called it a few times, but he didn’t answer, just looked at the glowing screen covered in bold lettering reading " _NORI_ ♥," and waited for the light to die out, listening to the tune of _London Bridge_ in eight-bit.

Everywhere he looks, there are traces of her. The girlish magnets on the fridge. The stained-glass chimes hung up by window. The pillow on her side of the bed still smells of vanilla and coconut oil, like something powdery and sweet he can’t put a name to. He should wash it. He doesn’t know what’s stopping him.

Her absence nags at him. It’s not like she was _active_ when she was here, anyway. She spent half her time sleeping on all available furniture—on him, too—and the other half gazing at things and asking strange questions and being stupidly happy. It was hard keeping up with the speed of her smiles. Pretending in the presence of others has never been much of a bother. There was nothing to hide. People see what they want to see. Renji saw him as a bizarre outlier, a savage one, but nothing special, and he paid for it. Yoshimura didn’t even take him into accounting. Another one that’s paid for his carelessness.

And Kaneki… Kaneki thought he was an ally. A friend. Someone to be trusted. It’d been amusing, and fun to cultivate. It’s amazing what others will assume if you allow them to imagine what you could be to them. Eventually, they begin to believe it. One word here, another action there, and they will be yours. They will depend on you, have _faith_ in you, all acquired with minimal effort. There’s power in that, and power is fun, too. His tastes have grown refined over the years, like the way he plays the game has, as well. He loves it. He always has. He always will.

He’d known she wouldn’t take to it well. He’d known and still… expected different. Expected the outburst, certainly, but not that she’d take it as far as she did—not to the point of disappearing. She must have truly cared for the boy, then. She’ll adapt to it. She’ll return. His teeth pull on the lip-ring as he focuses his attention on the notebook. The drive to draw is gone. Not that it was ever there in the first place. What a waste of time. He scowls. He’s not used to feeling useless. He’s _not_ useless. She’s a disease. He needs to get some air. The notebook falls as he yanks his jacket off the back of the couch.

A piece of plaster hanging from the depression in the wall drifts to the floor when he slams the door on his way out.

 

…

 

“You may want to leave the novices outside,” Takeda’s superior says as he opens the door. “This one’s grisly. Contained. But grisly.”

The inspector looks up at the body hanging from the rafters of the abandoned warehouse. It hasn’t been long enough for there to have been any stretching—corpses that are left up for longer than a day or two look like something out of those video games children nowadays love playing. Elongated necks, distorted proportions, bloating… gravity is not kind to a dead man. The body hasn’t been disfigured. The man’s shirt is still buttoned neatly, his shoes and laces intact, his slacks still cinched at the waist, if a little dusty. The arms are tied behind the back—and two syringes, thrust in till the hilt, are jammed in the respective centers of each open eye.

When Takeda approaches he can see where the lids of the eyes touch at the plastic of the syringe, and the horrified set of the body’s face. It’s going to be frozen like that forever. ‘The body’ is a great way to distance yourself from the victim. Maybe, by calling them that, it’ll make any given bloody truth that much further and less likely to happen to you, or to anyone you know—that’ll it’ll happen instead to someone else, but _someone_ _else_ is always an ‘anyone you know’ to another someone else. The cycle never ends.

“This week has been total crap,” Takeda says, listening to the creak of the cadaver swaying back and forth. “Was it anyone we knew?”

“He was one of the chief scientists on staff at the biomedical center,” his superior answers. Daisuke has always had a rather serious face. It looks especially grim today.

“Shit. Area 10?”

“Area 10.”

“I thought it all burned down,” Takeda murmurs. He wishes he had a cigarette.

Daisuke shrugs. “It did. There probably isn’t any connection. He’d been in retirement for a while. Fire happened, what, three, four years ago? And whatever project they’d had running there had been in the red light for months, anyway. They’d wrapped up a lot by the time the barbecue rolled around.”

“How would you know? That’s supposed to be classified.”

“I have my ways,” Daisuke says with a cryptic smile. “The syringes, though. A bit symbolic, don’t you think?”

“Scientist. Needles. Very ironic.”

Daisuke looks on as the rest of the investigators begin photographing evidence. A blood spatter here. The two chairs over there. The body, again. “So it’s either a pissed colleague, or someone who’s been done wrong—and is also pissed.”

“But no other mutilation. It was deliberate. I wouldn’t do that unless I knew what I wanted.”

“You confessing?” Daisuke asks, and laughs when Takeda’s face pales. “I was just pulling your leg. I don’t think you have to worry about being a suspect. This one’s a ghoul.”

Takeda sneaks a glance at him out of the corner of an eye. “What makes you say that? The RC readings haven’t come up positive for this place, have they? We haven’t been _officially_ called in on this, you know.”

Daisuke gives that carefree shrug one more time, but his gaze doesn’t move from the corpse, suspended up there high above them like some gruesome puppet. Surprises are one thing you are guaranteed to never run out of when you’re working in the CCG.

“I just have a feeling.”

 

…

 

He walks by INC every day at exactly seven PM. She’s sitting at the window of her apartment today and flips him off when he crosses the street to get to the opposite pavement.

“Fucking creep,” Nori says vehemently, drawing the blinds down with vengeful force.

“Was it the mask-maker again?” Shuu inquires and turns to look at her over the back of the couch. “The fellow’s a little fixated, if you ask me.”

She laughs as she plops down gracelessly next to him. “Like you have room to talk, _fellow_.”

Shuu sniffs, his pretty nose crinkling. “I have methods. Noble goals. A gentlemanly code. There is no comparison.”

“Okay, big guy.”

“Either way,” he continues, “we have a film to get to. How long is it?”

“Long,” she answers, purposefully vague. “And this is just the first one.”

His eyes widen. “There are _more_?”

“Two more, in fact,” she says and reaches over to take the remote from the side-table. “I can’t believe you’ve never watched Lord of the Rings.”

Another disdainful sniff. “I haven’t had the time.”

“I’m sure,” Nori drawls. “We’re at least getting to the Two Towers tonight. That was Ren’s favorite.”

She doesn’t know why she says that. All it serves to do is make her sad. Shit. She’s disrupted from her thoughts when Shuu lays a careful hand on her shoulder and brushes away the hair resting there.

“I’ll make sure to pay attention.”

Nori tries to smile at him. She’s not certain how it looks. Horrible, probably, but she hits ‘enter’ on the remote and sits back as the screen fades into the blackness of the opening credits.

“You’d better.”

 

…

 

_She can hear them running, screaming and yelling. No one comes to get her. Nothing new._

_This place is always quiet—it’s a rule. Something’s happening. She can smell burning plastic, hear the crackle of fire. A trickle of cold panic creeps down her spine when smoke starts seeping out from under the panel that doubles as a door into her room. There are no handles on the inside—only a remote signal from the panel outside can open the door, and that doesn’t seem to on the list of likely events. Oddly enough, the panic is gone. It’s been replaced with an eerie calm._

_She knows she should be losing it, freaking out about the possibility—more like the_ certainty _—of dying. But the instinct’s not there. When did it go away? She’s so tired. At least when she was younger, they had her in the room with the mirror. She doesn’t know how many years it’s been since they moved her here. The walls are white. They’re soft and resistant to scratching, biting, clawing—anything. She’s tried it all. There’s nothing in this room that can harm her. Not even a bed. It’s driven her insane._

_And now it’s going to end here. Her last mission was months ago. She’d always thought she’d die on the Chair, or on the streets. Not inside the white room. Maybe this is good. Smoke rises above her head. It’s gotten so thick that she can’t see much of her bare feet when she looks down. She coughs reflexively because of the tingle in her throat, though she doesn’t feel the need to do anything else. Screaming and crying won’t help. They won’t listen so her. They never have. She can’t hear many of them now—just the roar of the fire and the groaning of iron girders._

_Yes, she thinks savagely, burn it all. Make it collapse into dust and ashes and be destroyed, every last lonely corridor and coldly-lit examination room, each x-ray board and steel table—the towering drawers and the lockers and the panes divided into squares full of winking, colored lights, the Chair and the rows of glass tubes, the passageways painted with red arrows and twisting letters._ Let it all burn.

_She sits down with her back to the wall, curling her arms around her head, taking deep breaths, ignoring the tightening of her lungs. That’ll make it quick. It’s going to be finally over._

Please, don’t let me wake up.

 

…

 

“Hey, Nori?”

She doesn’t look up at Emiko, instead focusing on cleaning out her needles and discarding the little paper cups stained with used ink. Her next client should be arriving in the next twenty minutes. Barely enough time for a break. She loves it, though. Wouldn’t trade it up for anything else.

“Hm?” she says as she puts her tools away.

“Is everything alright?”

Nori pulls off her gloves and frowns at her receptionist. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I haven’t seen Ren around for a while,” Emiko says, clasping her hands behind her back. She does that when she’s nervous. “Have you two had a falling-out?”

“No,” Nori answers immediately. “Nothing like that. She’s just—taking care of some business right now.”

“Oh. That’s relieving. Family?”

 _I’m her family and she’s not here_ , Nori wants to say. “Yeah, maybe. She wasn’t really clear on the details. Just that it was an emergency.”

“I hope everything goes well for her. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

Nori shrugs. “Soon.”

Emiko smiles at her, that big happy smile with dimples showing. “That’s great! Catch you later, then.”

“Yeah,” Nori repeats in a mutter. She wishes she hadn’t been lying.

 

…

 

Doctor Masami Saito lives on the topmost floor of an otherwise uninhabited, privately-owned apartment complex.

She goes to sleep at exactly twelve-thirty AM every night, after having dinner at nine and taking a shower that averages on fifteen minutes long, twenty if she’s having a bad day. She works at a pharmacy down the street, and walks to it every day at eight AM sharp. The irony of her chosen profession does not escape Ren in the slightest. She likes wearing black flats and pencil skirts—the way she used to back when Ren had to face her every day for hours. She hasn’t changed much. Doesn’t look all that much older, either.

Her glasses are a little different. No rims. Silver skeleton. She turns the big lights in the penthouse off exactly ten minutes before going to bed, and reads by the glow of her nightstand’s lamp. She rarely uses the television but is fond of her computer. A maid comes in every other Friday at six to clean the hallways and help around the apartment. It’s a Friday tonight.

Ren watches Masami’s dark silhouette walk over to the desk before drawing the blinds. It’s almost time.

She waits patiently until the short girl she’s come to recognize as Masami’s bi-weekly maid walks up the opposite street and punches in the code to the gate of the complex. _Beep_. The door swings open. Ren takes a bit of a jumping start—she knows it’ll make her seem like she’s just been running. Should probably go heavy on the breathing too.

“Excuse me!” she calls out, and the girl turns around.

“Hello,” the girl says with a tentative smile. “Can I help you?”

Ren puts her hands on her knees, making as though she’s winded. “Sorry, I was—trying to catch up… I don’t think I was being loud enough.”

“It’s okay,” the girl replies, now looking a bit concerned. “Are you well? You seem a little out of breath.”

“I’m fine, yes,” Ren assures her. “I just—you were the first person I’ve seen in a while, and I didn’t want to pass up the chance. I’m totally lost. My brother lives somewhere around here but I’m hopeless with directions. My cellphone died twenty minutes ago, so I can’t even reach him.”

Now the tentativeness becomes supportive. Bingo. “Oh, I see. I know my way around here pretty well! Tell me the address and I’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thank you so much,” Ren tells her, meaning it more than the girl will ever know. She points at the intersection down the road. “I think I was supposed to go down _that_ way… on Nagoya Street?”

“Nagoya Street is in the totally opposite direction,” the girl says, laughing lightly. She turns to the left. There’s the opportunity. “It’s right over—”

The knockout is quick and clean. Ren doesn’t break anything, and she catches the girl on the way down. Very light. Can’t be older than twenty-four. She’s probably going to blame herself for trusting Ren when she wakes up, and Ren wouldn’t mind—she lied for her own purposes, but what she’s going to do won’t be because the girl couldn’t stop her. She wanted a neat way in. No scaling walls, no alarms. She takes the keychain from the pocket of the girl’s coat and opens the front door with them. It clicks behind her as it shuts. Ren lays the girl to rest on the couch against the wall next to the elevator.

Ren has two hours before the maid’s shift is over and anyone begins to notice anything is amiss. She hits the button to summon the elevator and waits. She’s been waiting for years. She can do a few minutes longer.

Besides… two hours is _plenty._


	8. Face Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! i totally forgot to put up the rest of the chapters, derp. lmao. i'll be coming back to this story soon, i've missed the girls! :')

 

I’VE LEARNED THAT EITHER YOU CONTROL  
YOUR ATTITUDE, OR IT CONTROLS YOU.

…

 

She seems to be knocking a lot of people out lately.

Ren drums her fingers on the table as she waits for Masami to regain her bearings. She’d given the doctor a little love tap, but it may have been a tad too strong for the average human. The only light in the room is coming from the lamp on the nightstand by Masami’s neatly-made bed. Ren looks down at her jeans, at the red staining deep on her thighs and knees. She’s going to have to change after this. She’d gotten a spare pair from a recycling bin. They may have been some very generously-girthed man’s pants in their other life, but they’re hers now, and they’re squashed behind a set of loose bricks five blocks away.

She sighs impatiently. “I know you’re awake. You may as well open your eyes.”

Masami does as Ren suggests and looks up at her carefully with a wince of pain. “What have you done…?”

Ren shrugs. “I had some trouble finding a plate but I got it eventually, don’t worry about that. Do you remember me, Doctor Saito?”

It feels odd, to taste that name. She’d always been _the lady_ to Ren and nothing more.

“Of course,” Masami says in a thick voice. “Sixteen.”

“Well done,” Ren congratulates her. She rolls back on the balls of her heels. “You’re the first to answer that question correctly. I wouldn’t suggest getting up. That may sting a bit.”

She hasn’t bound Masami to anything—there’s no need for it. Kyoya had been another matter entirely. The restraints were needed in that situation. He needed to know what it was like—to sit there, tied down, facing disfigurement with no way to stop it. Masami is different. What Ren wants to teach her is different. It’s _all_ very different, really. Ren watches her with interest as she stretches out her feet, listens to the terrified catch in her breath when she sees the skinless strips on her legs. They gleam like stretches of ruby, wet and scarlet. Ren thinks they’re quite pretty, honestly.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s probably the shock,” Ren concedes, and then jiggles the plate she’s holding in her right hand. Masami’s eyes fix on it immediately. “What’s the matter? _Aren’t you hungry?_ ”

The doctor makes a strangled sound, something between a whine and a yelp.

“Did you ever get around to having children?” Ren asks, very quietly.

“No!”

Ren nods very seriously, like that response wasn’t a panicked protest, but an answer. “Too noisy, I assume.”

Masami tries to stand but all that achieves is her tumbling to the ground, her flailing feet making streaks of red on the hardwood floor. She crawls backward until she hits the foot of her bed and stays there. Her face is pale, and the straight cut of her hair is full of jagged flyaways, tousled beyond recognition. Her glasses are gone. She looks frightened. It makes Ren happy. The expression’s just like she imagined it would be. She inches forward to Masami across the floor, and the woman throws out her hands in front of her like that’s going to forbid Ren from moving.

“Stop!”

Another inch.

“Stop! _Please!_ ”

“Now, now,” Ren says calmly, “don’t be boisterous.”

“No! No, no, _no_!”

Ren curls her free hand around one of Masami’s ankles, and she smiles, smiles so wide her mouth aches. Tears are rolling down Masami’s cheeks.

“Be a good girl and sit still for me, won’t you? It’s dinnertime.”

 

…

 

He wasn’t aware that the things that hurt right now are things that _could_ hurt. Everything hurts. Even his fingers hurt. What time is it? He cracks one eye open and regrets it instantly.

“Oh, that’s bright,” Shuu says unhappily, and the immensity of his headache triples at the sound of his own voice. He didn’t realize that was in the realm of possibility.

Something to his right stirs and mumbles. He looks around. Tall ceiling, dark colors. Animal skulls on the walls… definitely Nori’s apartment. Not that he remembers coming here, anyway. He remembers a lot of _other_ things, like the drinking (the very generous amount of drinking), but not really the placement—sue him, he was a little distracted from retaining information about his surroundings. It’s challenging to focus on anything further than half a foot away when your beautiful girlfriend is working you into a frenzy.

Well, at least it isn’t a hotel. Dirty things, those places. He much prefers this lovely apartment. This lovely, sound-proofed, gigantic-bed-in-a-great-room apartment. Now, if the headache could go away…

“What time is it?” Nori’s voice croaks.

“I have no idea,” he replies. He checks to see if he can move his eyes from that one spot on the ceiling that they seem to have gotten stuck staring at. Nope. Can’t move.

“So… you awake?”

“Apparently. I think so. It doesn’t feel nice.”

She groans. “I can’t move.”

“I think my hips have disintegrated.”

A watery laugh rises up from the bundle of sheets at his right. “I’d say I’m sorry but I really am not.”

“And my head…”

“Which one?”

“My darling, I love you, but this _really_ isn’t the time.”

She stretches, and two shapely legs pop out of the bed-sheet mountain, plus painstakingly painted and maintained toenails. “I think—I think I’ve gone blind.”

“Ugh,” is his helpful addition.

They lie there for some time longer, almost touching but not, breathing together, feeling the heat of the other through the thin sheets.

“Painkillers?” he says, and she makes an unintelligible sound.

“Cabinet. First drawer.”

Dismay. Utter dismay. “That’s all the way across the room.”

“Yup,” she confirms. They fall into silence, until— “You gonna get them?”

“At some point,” he says, but his eyes are already shutting again.

 

…

 

_A hand is brushing the hair at her forehead back. Mom? No. Can’t be._

_She bolts upright, ready for murder, and then finds out she can’t remember what made her so angry in the first place. It was something really important. Nori hangs her head and rubs at her temples. She’s got the worst migraine in the world. What the fuck?_

“ _You’re awake,” someone says, and she looks up to see Ren sitting on the floor next to the couch—the couch she was lying on. Ren’s wearing her work uniform and her long hair is pulled back in a pretty ponytail, but her expression is worried. “Thank goodness. How many fingers am I holding up? What’s your name? Do you know where you are?”_

_Nori frowns at her. “Three. The last two are stupid. Why am I in Anteiku?”_

_Ren smiles at her sheepishly. “Ah... Yomo brought you back here.”_

_She squints, trying to chip away at the grey spot in her memory. She—she was furious, and then she left the apartment… a car drive, speeding, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tight she felt like her knuckles were going to pop out of her skin. The click of her shoes against the pavement as she’d turned the corner. Tearing her arm out of Yomo’s grip, turning on him, screaming at him, saying she wanted to kill them_ , kill them all _, I’m going to tear it down, if they want a fucking war, they’ve got one, I’ll fucking teach them the meaning of pain! Him standing there, watching her blankly from behind the tall collar of his dark coat, hands in his pockets, blinking, enraging her with his unreactive bullshit._

“ _Don’t you care? Are you just going to stare at me like a retard? Fucking_ say _something!”_

“ _You’re becoming hysterical,” he’d said coolly, and she’d felt her kakugan blaze to life at the stupidity of his reply._

“ _I’d rather be hysterical bitch than a damn android!” she’d yelled back._

_She couldn’t see his mouth move, but she heard him. She’d heard him fine._

“ _This isn’t going to bring her back.”_

“ _You think I don’t know that? If it could, I’d have done it sooner! It’s not going to bring her back, no, but it’ll fucking make me_ feel better _.”_

_His eyes had narrowed at her, even just a little, crinkling at the edges. “You can’t kill innocents at your every whim.”_

_She’d thrown back her head and laughed, long and loud, listening to the high note of mania in her own voice. “No one is innocent in this crapsack world. Not you, not me—not anyone. You’re duping yourself. You and your stupid fucking manager with your little coffee cups and your trays, trying to make_ friends _, even though every last one of them would and will turn on you the minute they find out what you really are. I told Suz and she didn’t listen. You’re—ahaha!—you’re doing_ the same thing _.”_

“ _Are you finished?” he’d asked stiffly._

 _She’d jabbed a finger at him. “No! No, I am_ not _finished. Don’t you_ dare _act like you’re better than me, with all your moral superiority horseshit—don’t you dare, when you can’t even fucking accept what you are. I love to kill, yes, and I always will, and no one will take that from me, and it_ scares _you that I don’t apologize for it. You know it’s right, but you pretend like it’s not. You don’t want to stop me because you think I’m wrong. You want to stop me because you don’t want to go through the trouble of realizing you can’t look at this_ shit _through rose-colored glasses. It’s going to come down on you one day, and you’ll have to run, but I’ll be here, where I’ve always been, because_ I’m not sorry _.”_

 _His neutral expression had contorted into a scowl. “You_ are _finished.”_

_And then darkness._

“ _Nori?”_

_Ren’s voice is very soft and concerned, but it galvanizes her better than any kick to the ass would. She launches herself off the couch even though it sends her head spinning. Her boots give an echoing thud as she lands feet-first on the hardwood floor._

“ _I’m going to fucking destroy him!”_

_That’s more of a screech than a coherent sentence. She marches over to the door and tries to yank it open—and all welcomes her is the jiggle of the lock._

“ _Nori,” Ren says again, coming to her feet as well._

“ _Motherfuckers locked the fucking door! Do you really think a_ locked door _is going to stop me?”_

“ _I believe they count on me to do that,” her friend notes and then sighs. “Though I must admit, I’m not truly inclined toward inhibiting you.”_

“ _Shitsticks on a grill,” Nori growls. She gives the door an annoyed kick. The pointed toe of her boot bounces off the surface with ease. If she’d wanted to knock it down, she would have. They know that. And they still locked the fucking door. How much more brazen can you get?_

“ _Yomo said you were ready to tear the CCG down. Or—to try tearing it down.”_

“ _I bet he did, didn’t he?” she says vehemently. Another kick. “Fuck him. I’ve seen prettier things stuck to the bottom of a garbage-man’s shoe.”_

_Ren moves closer, apparently not cowed by Nori’s anger. She never has been—not really. “Are you alright? He must have hit you very hard. I can’t believe he did. I’m not happy with it. I’m not happy with it at all.”_

“ _I’m not either,” Nori replies. The back of her head is throbbing something fierce. “I have such a fucking_ headache. _”_

“ _He should have done something else,” Ren continues. Now she sounds more forceful. “He should not have laid a hand on you.”_

“ _I’m not made of porcelain, yeah, but it’d have been nice.”_

“ _I don’t care,” Ren says, shaking her head. Her high ponytail sways behind her. “They can’t expect me to agree and act as their mediator when they don’t treat you with respect. The manager is pushing my limits.”_

“… _Am I hallucinating, or are you actually expressing disapproval?”_

_Ren looks at her with a serious gaze, dark and solemn. “This is not funny. If you hadn’t woken up, they would have had much more to worry about than a simple broken door.”_

_She looks down at the floor, feeling a familiar uncomfortable itching at the back of her neck begin. That always happens when people are too nice and she doesn’t know what to do with it. Ren’s not in the habit of half-baking anything she does, and that includes friendliness. Nori, however, has approximately three ways of responding to all things positive—a thank you smile, a playful punch, or a mix between the two. Beyond that is part of an art she doesn’t seem to have mastered yet, though Mr. Checkers and Ren both have absolutely no problems conveying any sort of affection… at any time, in any place._

“ _Yeah,” she says at last, and her voice sounds a bit watery. She clears her throat decisively. She’s supposed to be busy being angry. “I just want to get out of here. If I don’t I may just punch the sorry son of a bitch right in the kisser. Fuck this place. And fuck humans.”_

“ _You’re_ sure _you’re alright?” Ren asks again, staring at Nori with her ridiculously expressive eyes. “I’m going to drive you home.”_

“ _You’ve got work, you don’t have to.”_

“ _I don’t care,” her friend says, borderline flippant. “If Yomo can freely strike you then I can freely take time off to administer to the problem he caused. It’s his fault.”_

“ _Okay,” Nori agrees. She’s too tired to protest, and Ren’s too determined. Everything is_ too _everything, to be honest. Wow, Yoyo really did do a number on her head. She feels high. That’s probably not good._

_Ren comes to stand next to her by the door, and jiggles the knob as if it’ll open magically just for her. “If you have concussion I cannot promise I won’t harm him.”_

“ _Fine by me,” Nori mumbles. “Not gonna lie, I’ve fantasized about watching you throw him across the room a couple dozen times.”_

“ _Yes, well, your wish may become reality,” Ren says, and her tone becomes frustrated. “Manager! Yomo! Open the door right this instant!”_

_The answer comes surprisingly quick. “Has she calmed down?”_

_Nori would usually have something biting to say to Yoyo’s holier-than-thou attitude, but she’s exhausted, and she feels like she could never be angry again (which she knows, logically, is a total fucking lie). All that’s left is the emptiness. The sad, aching emptiness that nothing can fill, not even killing. Suzume is never coming back. And there’s nothing she can do about it._

_Ren rattles the knob once more. It creaks in protest. Ren is frightfully strong—like a giant. Fitting. “She_ is _calm, but I am not. Do not make me tear this thing from its hinges.”_

_There’s a series of clicks as the lock on the other side is coaxed open, and the door swings outward to reveal Yomo standing in the hallway. It’s funny, Nori thinks, because Ren’s taller than him, and she looks angry. He’s still got that stupid-ass coat of his on. If she weren’t so damn wiped she’d rip it off him, bunch it up, and shove it right down his self-righteous, sanctimonious, crap-spewing throat._

“ _I’m driving her back,” Ren says as she fiddles with her apron’s knot._

“ _I know,” Yomo replies._

“ _Congratulations,” a voice scoffs, and then Nori realizes it wasn’t her. It was Ren. “You can hear. Now, if you would kindly step aside, we’ll be on our way.”_

“ _Only if your friend will promise not to try anything,” Yomo says, though they can’t see him talk behind the collar of his coat._

“ _My friend has a name, and it’s ‘Nori,’” Ren returns. She peels off her apron and shoves it into Yomo’s front, holds it there till one of his hands slides out of pockets to catch it. This is the most confrontational Nori has ever seen her. “I suggest you use it if you feel like pretending to respect me.”_

“ _You’re offended,” he observes, as though it’s something only he could have caught onto._

“ _Yes,” Ren says simply._

“ _If she’d charged into CCG she’d have gotten herself—and all of us—killed.”_

“ _I know,” she says, again, very simply, and Yomo blinks in surprise. “I’m not disputing the foolhardiness of the whole thing. It’s Nori. It’s to be expected.”_

“ _Hey!”_

_Ren stands straight, the fine ends of her silky ponytail brushing at the space between her shoulder-blades. “But you struck her. Instead of talking to her—you hit her. You claim to espouse peace. Is that how you deal with anyone who does not agree with you?”_

_Yomo’s mouth presses into a thin line. It’s an expression Nori recognizes._

“ _I didn’t have many options,” he tells her. “She was going to attract attention, and I couldn’t risk it.”_

“ _We’re not going to get anywhere,” Ren interrupts. “You felt it was necessary and I didn’t. Nothing you say will change my believing that. You could have made her stand down, and you chose not to.”_

“ _She was not in a state to be talked to.”_

“ _I would_ appreciate _it if you guys didn’t go on like I_ wasn’t here _.”_

_Ren doesn’t seem fazed by anything that’s said. “I know exactly how much and how effectively you could have appealed to her emotions. Your situations were similar enough. You just didn’t want to try, or felt it wasn’t worth it. I don’t know which is worse.”_

_The contours of his shoulders become rigid and unyielding. His hand crinkles the black apron he’s gripping. “You have no idea why I do anything.”_

“ _I can guess,” Ren says. “You have your loyalties. I have mine. Now, please, step aside. I won’t ask you again.”_

_He does as he’s told, and Ren strides by him, making a beeline to the stairs. Nori shuffles after her, and is stretching out a foot to step down on the first stair when she turns around, looks Yomo in the eyes, squarely, unblinking, and then brings up both hands—the more to flip him off with. The corners of his lips turn downward, and this scowl, as opposed to the one he gave her a few hours ago, actually features teeth. Progress. She pulls down an eyelid and sticks her tongue out at him._

“ _Later,_ Yoyo _.”_

 

…

 

Nori’s usually the last out of shop—the last to close things up.

She supposes it’s fitting, seeing as she owns the place, and all. Emiko’s already left. She’d been feeling sick earlier and Nori had just told her to pack up and go, and she had. Now it’s just her and Shuu. He’s gotten used to sitting around, even if he doesn’t do much (not that he can, he’s not certified or anything, but he’s good support, because seriously, fuck some of her clients). She wheels around in her chair and dumps her last used needle into the bin reserved for biohazardous waste.

The bell at the front door rings. Shuu looks up from his one of many magazines from his seat across her, and she looks back at him, shrugging.

“We’re closed!” she yells, but she hears the thud of footsteps on the floor. Nori sighs and stands, brushing off her leggings. She marches to the door that separates her booth from the rest in the hallway and yanks it open with vengeful force, glaring straight ahead. “I _said_ , we’re cl—osed…”

The person in the doorway is tall, dressed in dark colors, and for a moment she thinks she’s finally reached her limit—this is it, guys, psychotic break, here we go!—but then she looks closer, and she sees features that are too familiar for her to ever forget them. Thick brows, schoolgirl bangs, funny, attractive square jaw, symmetrical lips, stupidly large eyes—it’s—

“Ren,” Nori breathes. Something hot and tight expands in her chest and then tenses, like blood rushing to a new bruise. Behind her, Shuu stands. “You’re…”

Her friend gazes down at her, over the bridge of a straight nose, and smiles just a little bit. It’s not the same, Nori thinks. It doesn’t look like the Ren she knows. _Knew_.

“Hi,” Ren says softly.

Nori stares at her for a second more before it becomes impossible to hold it in any longer.

“Don’t ‘hi’ _me_! Where the _fuck_ have you been?!”

Ren doesn’t startle at the abrupt change in volume. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

She stands on her toes, poking one long-nailed finger into the chest of Ren’s black coat. “You sure fucking bet it has been! What the _shit_ , Ren? Do you _know_ how many cigs I went through in a day because I couldn’t stop thinking about what the fuck might have _happened_ to you? I turned into a fucking _chimney!_ Are you going to take responsibility for turning me into a _fucking chimney?”_

“I’m sorry,” Ren offers. It sounds impersonal and honest.

“You fucking better be!” Nori shouts and then curses some more when she realizes her eyes are stinging. God, she’s so relieved. And she’s so _angry_. “Where did you go? What have you been doing? Are you insane? You just walked out and—I thought you were never coming back. What the _hell_?”

“I told you she’d return,” Shuu pipes up.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You may hit me if you so wish,” Ren says, bowing her head. Her hair’s gotten longer. She’s gotten thinner.

“I’m seriously considering it,” Nori threatens even though the vehemence of that is somewhat lessened by the fact that her voice is thick with the anticipation of tears. Ren just stands there, looking at her, face grave, not speaking. “I really did think you were gone for good. Why did you go?”

Ren pauses, contemplating what to say. “I… don’t think I can explain why. I mean, I _could_ , but you would probably would find that explanation inadequate. Nothing I’ve said to myself sounds right.”

“…Can you try?”

One more pause. Then she licks her lips. “The thought of staying and seeing his face made me want to tear my own skin off. I needed to—clear some things up. Finish… ordering my affairs. Loose ends. But I wanted to see you. Even for just a little while.”

“You’re delusional if you believe I’m going to let you waltz away again,” Nori snaps. Her hand shoots out and grabs at Ren’s sleeve, the way she had two and a half months ago when Ren had first left—and this time, she’s not letting go. “You don’t have anywhere to stay, do you?”

“No,” Ren admits. “It hasn’t been a problem.”

Nori gapes at her. “Are you kidding? You’ve been on the _streets_?”

“It does sound a bit drastic when you put it like that,” Ren says, blinking slowly. “There are enough places to sleep, if you know where to look, and bathhouses don’t have exceptionally good security, either. Usually.”

“You are completely batshit,” is all Nori can say. “You know I would have taken you in regardless of whether you’d asked or not, right?”

Blink again. “Yes.”

“And you _know_ I would have punched a hole through Mr. QBall’s face if I had to?”

“Yes.”

“ _Then why didn’t you stay?!_ ”

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

She almost does smack Ren for that, but Ren’s been hit enough for disagreeing her entire life, so Nori just purses her lips and tries to think of a way that could possibly convey she doesn’t give a _fuck_ about what sheltering Ren would have meant—that she would do anything if it meant it would keep her family safe. Because that’s what Ren and Shuu are. Family. They’re all she has left. And she’s never going to let anything or anyone hurt them. Ever. Nori stares up at Ren, the fists clenched at her sides loosening, and then she opens her arms, standing on her tiptoes—she hugs Ren with a strength she didn’t know she had. She can hear the steady thudding of Ren’s heart through the rough fabric of the coat pressing on her cheek. The coat itself smells of sweat and salt and drain-cleaner.

Ren tenses, muscles growing taut with shock. Nori sometimes, rarely, offers hugs, but she doesn’t initiate them. Nori listens to Ren exhaling when the stress drains away, and feels Ren’s arms move together at her back.

Nori tightens her grip. “There’s an empty apartment in the floor above us. It still has a spare bed. I’m going to bring you some sheets and a pair of pajamas and you are going to live here.”

Ren tries to move away only to have Nori hold on stubbornly. “But—”

“Quiet. You’re going to do as I say, and we’re going to face this together. Okay?”

“…Okay.”

“Good.”

Nori steps back, hands on Ren’s arms, and then a sigh rises up from behind them.

“You’re so lucky. My lovely lady hardly ever embraces me so affectionately.”

He has to duck when Nori turns around to lob her ballpoint at him.

 

…

 

Ren’s already finished taking her shower when Nori crosses the street again with a bag of clothes that Ren had left at her apartment when she’d moved out.

The light fixtures on the walls and ceilings still work, thankfully, so the place isn’t dark, though it is bare. Not much of a difference from the flat Ren had over Anteiku. It hadn’t looked lived-in. Ren’s idea of making a space her own had developed slowly. She hadn’t made or bought decorations until Nori had encouraged her to.

“I see photos on other people’s walls,” she’d said once while they’d been drinking coffee together. “I can’t even really remember my grandparents’ faces. They were the only photographs we had. Dad didn’t allow any others. I wonder if our house is still standing… if they’ve sold it to anyone, or if they burned it down after they took Mama.”

How in the world do you respond to something like that?

Nori opens the door to the bedroom. The warm light of the lamp on the nightstand casts orange shadows on the mattress and the floor. Ren’s dressed in a white shirt that’s almost glowing because of her proximity to the lamp. Her legs are crossed, her back to the headboard, and she’s looking out the window through the tiny slits in the blinds, preoccupied, and only turns around when Nori closes the door.

“Hey,” Nori greets and holds out the paper bag. “Found some stuff in your size lying around my place. You should be good for another few days, at least until I can go get your shit from Lord of the Turds.”

“I already told you that you don’t need to do that,” Ren says as Nori plops down on the mattress beside her.

“You shitting me? Of course I do. I’m not going to just fucking let him have your things.”

“I don’t really care,” Ren murmurs, and the sentence trails off, unfinished. Her toes curl in the sheets and she reaches over to the coat sprawled at the foot of the mattress. “I just want you to take something back if you do go.”

“Hm?”

Ren’s hand digs into a pocket. The object she slides out of it glints and glitters in the lamplight, like a shard cast off from a broken mirror. It’s Ren’s mask—still in mint condition, pretty as ever. Nori used to get a small sense of pride from looking at it before. The sight of it meant that Ren had finally come into her own. That she’d started forging an identity separate from her past… that she’d started owning what she was. It’d been a gift. Looking at it _now_ just makes Nori’s stomach churn. She can’t imagine what it feels like for Ren.

“Leave it there,” Ren says. Her arm proffers the mask. “I don’t want it.”

Nori takes it from her, and, after glancing at it one last time, tucks it away into her purse. “I’ll… yeah. I’ll do that.”

She’s still got her attention on the purse when Ren starts giggling. Nori lifts her eyes to Ren, ready to ask what’s so funny, but something in her brain balks and halt at the realization that though Ren is smiling, laughing like a child, tears are streaming down her cheeks. They drip from her chin, make the hair on the sides of her face stick to her temples, decorate the sheets in tiny sparkling droplets, but she keeps laughing. Ren rakes her hands through her damp hair, grasping at her scalp.

“I’m hilarious,” she says in an unexpectedly steady voice. “I’m so hilarious.”

Nori sits up. “Ren…?”

She laughs again, shutting her eyes. Her lashes are beaded with water. “I actually trusted him.”

Nori’s mouth goes dry, and Ren doesn’t look up. Ren doesn’t say anything when Nori kicks off her boots and scoots in beside her, the buckles at the back of Nori’s jacket clicking on the bed’s headboard. Doesn’t say anything when Nori rests her forehead against Ren’s shoulder, either. Just sits there, breathing in shakily, trying not to make any noise.

The room is warm from the steam of the shower across the hall, and it’s all carrying the scent of coconut oil. Ren’s favorite. Nori crosses her legs and threads her arm through Ren’s, trying to figure out how total silence can be so loud.

 

 


	9. No More Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> official psa that this is a total canon divergence from the end of the first series (though you probably guessed as much) because........... yeah. well. let's not talk about TG: RE, ok
> 
> i hope you enjoy this nonetheless!!

 

I’VE LEARNED THAT SOMETIMES WHEN I’M ANGRY, I HAVE   
THE RIGHT TO BE ANGRY, BUT IT DOES NOT GIVE ME  
THE RIGHT TO BE CRUEL.  


…

 

_She turns the investigator’s corpse over with a decisive kick, and then stoops to look at his hands._

_Left is what she’s looking for. The wedding band there is plain and pretty, and she glares at it while she tears the arm away from the body. It comes free with an odd, meaty tearing sound that usually accompanies joints being pulled apart, and the cartilage in the arm strains and pops as she rips the socket out of place._

_She stares down at the body as she yanks the torn sleeve off the dismembered arm, memorizing the plain features of the man she’d killed not but two minutes ago. He looks—looked—incredibly ordinary for a murderer. She won’t shut his eyes. By the time they find him, rigor mortis is going to have made it impossible for them to ever close again until decomposition. She wants it that way. If they can kill the way they do without losing sleep, they should have no problems with being looked at by a dead man. She shoves the arm into the duffel-bag she’d brought with her, and then slings it up over one shoulder._

_She’s not doing this for Suz._

_She’s doing it because retribution is all these people understand._

 

…

 

The drive to HySy isn’t incredibly long.

Nori was too agitated to get any proper sleep, so maybe it’s the fact that she’s out hours and hours before the time she usually even considers emerging from her apartment that is making the traffic seem completely inconsequential. She briefly debates about whether to lower the glass to her window down so she can cuss out the stupid _motherfucker_ who is holding up the entire street, but that would mean getting to HySy sooner, and she’s in no hurry to see Uta’s face.

“She doesn’t have too much stuff, so it shouldn’t be that hard to get in and out in around twenty minutes,” Nori says as she takes a sharp left that’s going to take her in the direction of Shinjuku.

Shuu turns his attention on her from watching the sidewalk go by. He’s dressed in a mercifully simple ensemble today—pastel blues and mint green—topped off with a tailored coat in a dark, mossy color. Maybe she’s finally rubbing off on him (nah, he’s probably going to go back to donning laser red and puce purple tomorrow or this afternoon). Against the muted grey of the seats in Nori’s car, he looks like a shamrock.

“Is Miss Ren alright?”

She can’t answer that straight away. “I don’t know. She was still asleep when I went in to check on her. I had no idea one person could cry so much.”

Shuu chews on his lip irritably. “The scoundrel broke her heart.”

Nori snorts. “That’s just about the understatement of the century.”

“Has she informed you on what she plans to do to him—about him?”

“Nothing specific,” Nori says. Her eyes flicker to the street signs. Almost there. “I would cave his skull in.”

“Yes, that does sound like you,” Shuu laughs, and props his chin up on one hand. “Though I wouldn’t object. I have a feeling, however, that Miss Ren is not so violently inclined. Not toward those she holds dear, anyhow.”

“You didn’t see her jacket when she came back from his place that first time,” she replies. “Torn to shreds. But yeah, I… don’t think she’ll want to hurt him. Beats me why. He’s a fucking asshole. I always thought something was up with him, just couldn’t put my finger on _what_.”

Shuu hums a snatch of some song she can’t name. It’s probably French. “A gentle heart is not always a blessing.”

Nori’s seen Ren tear the head off of a man with her bare hands, unblinking. She’s been the last one left standing in a room packed tight with enemies, ghoul and human alike, the sharp facets of her kagune dripping with blood, her shoes stained with it—Nori’s watched her crush throats and split skulls, watched her drive an investigator cranium-first through one wall to the next in the room, turning them to scarlet pulp. But she’s also watched Ren fall asleep with headphones on, bundled in a sweater too big for her, and watched her stop her car to get out and carry a baby bird off the street.

She’s watched Ren stoop over a tiny booklet about plants native to Japan, shoulder-to-shoulder with a boy who taught her how to read—watched her sit in the middle of a sea of pigeons and laugh with a smile so wide and bright that looking at it had made Nori feel like sunrise had come early. She’s watched Ren giggle and hide her face and rise hilariously from under a shrine of suds in the bathtub. She’s watched Ren look at him—at the guy she said she loved; and Nori knows, there and then, sitting behind that wheel, that Ren would never be able to kill him.

“Gentle,” she repeats, thinking of Kaneki, and the last few tortured days when the 20th Ward burned and the CCG swarmed over the entire precinct, like ants over the corpse of some dead thing doomed to rot in a forgotten place. Her hands close more firmly around the steering wheel. “Gentle… gets you killed.”

Shuu goes back to looking out the window. The line of his jaw is tight.

They don’t say anything else for the rest of the way.

 

…

 

She pretty much kicks the door to HySy open.

The loser’s not downstairs. She can’t see him anywhere—not on the stools or lurking behind the display case full of example masks. This place pisses her off. She used to like it. Maybe he’s in the apartment making coffee. She can smell the faint scent of it wafting down the stairs at the back of the workshop. She turns around to jerk her head toward the staircase, and catches Shuu looking critically at an open sketchbook. His nose scrunches up, like he’s smelled something distasteful, and proceeds to follow her as she trudges upward to the apartment door.

Shuu knocks for her, because she’s carrying one of two gigantic boxes she’s planning to stash all of Ren’s things in. Shuu has the other.

They hear the scuff of slippers on parquet floor from the other side, and then the door opens. Uta’s hair is down today. His kakugan look out at them from under the feathered curve of his loose fringe, and his expression doesn’t change as he regards them standing there. His eyes move down, noticing the box, and then back up, fixing on Nori’s face. Let him stare. She doesn’t give a fuck.

“To what do I owe this joint visit?” he says, calm, so calm that it makes Nori want to knock all his teeth out.

“What does it look like?” she snipes. “I’m not here for your scintillating wit. Let me in.”

“And why would I do that?” Uta asks. His height is irritating her.

Her lips curl in a snarl. “Because I want Ren’s stuff and if I don’t get it, I’m going to allow Barney here to take over for me.”

“Bonjour,” Shuu says from directly behind her, sounding perfectly cheery. Uta blinks at him with all the interest of a sleepy chameleon.

“Why do you want to collect her belongings?”

Nori scoffs. “This isn’t Twenty fucking Questions, pal. I have my own reasons and that will just have to be _adequate_ for you.”

He does that slow blink again, appraising her. Calculating. “…Have you been in contact with Ren?”

She laughs at him. “Wouldn’t _you_ love to know?” she sneers. “Now, are you going to step the fuck aside, or am I going to have to knock you out?”

Uta gives her a look that screams he seriously doubts the validity of her last statement, but he moves out of the way anyhow. She stalks into the apartment, immediately on the lookout. The first thing she notices about the living room is the distinct subtle sweetness of coconut—it’s not a full-blown, in-your-face smell, but it’s there. Nori’s only been here a handful of times, and it’s not at all difficult for her to know that Ren’s lived here. There’s a set of chimes hanging by the window at the far end of the room, behind the sofa, silver, full of pink ornamental hearts. Uta definitely didn’t put that up. She makes a beeline in their direction, and has to hop for a second to unhook them from the top of the window.

She lays them in the box and then turns around to survey the rest of the apartment, trying to pick out other things Ren could own. Shuu is standing the corner, back leaned against the wall. She’s just finished scanning the couch pillows when she sees the glare Uta is leveling at her. Nori glares right back.

“Cry me a fucking river,” she hisses venomously as she tilts to the side and snatches a fat hamster plushie right off of the coffee table.

This goes on for the next half hour. Nori investigates every corner of Uta’s—surprisingly light-filled and airy—flat, seeking out all of Ren’s possessions, including shampoos and body-lotions. She gathers brushes, for teeth and for hair, stuffed animals, quilts and clothes, sweaters and shoes, and when she’s done piling her own box high she gives it to Shuu, who takes it downstairs to the car, and then brings it back up while she starts getting things together for the second box; when they’re alone, she and Uta remain in the living room, looking at each other as though they’re the biggest inconvenience one another has faced. Rinse and repeat.

The last place she explores is the bedroom, and Uta follows her to hover over her from the doorway. The bed’s big, with ample space for two people, made with dark sheets and a velveteen blanket. What she assumes to be Ren’s side has a set of pale purple pillows on it. A rosy pony plush is nestled between them, watching her with glassy eyes. She takes that first, and then looks over her shoulder.

“Did she buy these pillows?” she asks curtly. Uta’s lips tighten in disapproval.

“Yes,” he says after a lengthy pause.

That’s more than enough of an answer. She reaches out, seizes them, and thrusts them into the box.

“Where are you going to take all of this?” Uta says, his tone positively prickly.

“Somewhere,” she returns with a cool facetiousness she’s spent her whole life perfecting. She hopes it gets under his skin. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is,” he continues. “This is _my_ home—and Ren’s. I have a right to know.”

Nori whirls on him, the ends of her jacket fluttering, the box forgotten on the mattress. Her hair rises and settles over her shoulders and arms. “You have _jackshit_. That’s what you have. Jack-fucking-shit. Your rights went out the fucking _window_ the minute you manipulated her, you sick piece of crap. I should break your stupid goddamn neck.”

A cold light has gathered in his eyes, the kind that shines strongest when someone is doing bloody work—she doesn’t know why she never noticed it before. Maybe it was because he’s _that good_ of an actor—or maybe it was because she wanted Ren to be happy so badly that she was willing to overlook the little things. She should have known. The little things are _always important_.

“Try. See how far that’ll get you,” he says. His mouth barely moves as he talks, and his voice is soft, like it’s been since the first time she met him.

“I’m cruel, not dumb,” Nori snaps at him. “I’m not going to let you goad me into anything. You have no fucking power when you can’t control people. It gets you off, doesn’t it? Let’s disappoint you. She’s not your _toy_. And if you so much as _breathe_ on her wrong, ever again—just once—she won’t be able to hold me back. You’re going to fucking die. You got that?”

He looks like he’s about to smile. Fucking psycho.

“Should that happen, I’ll look forward to it,” he remarks in a way that just intensifies the urge to throw something at him—an urge that’s been rising sharply in the last five minutes. “I’ve always thought humility would look good on you.”

“It’s not my _style_ ,” she snarls, and then turns to claw the box up into her hands again. She hears the click of a shoe heel on the floor.

“Is everything alright?” Shuu says as he steps into the room. “Is he bothering you, my dear?”

“I was just on my way out,” Nori informs him.

She strides past Uta, not looking at him, and finds herself in the living room again, making for the exit. She can’t stand another second in this fucking apartment. Shuu is close behind her, and she gives him the box so she can shut the door. Then, she remembers. She made a promise. Nori fishes around in one of her many spacious pockets, and after a heartbeat her hand closes around what she was looking for. She pulls it out of her pocket and lobs it at Uta, who is now standing by the sofa. He intercepts the projectile with ease and doesn’t seem perturbed until he looks down at what he’s holding. It’s the closest to surprise she’s ever seen him.

“A present,” she says, her lips twisting into a smirk.

Nori watches him stare just a moment longer at the beautiful thing she hurled. The mirror-like shards in its surface are reflecting dancing points of light on his face. She’s ready to close the door, to leave him there with only Ren’s mask as company, but then—

“And you know what? I never really liked your art anyway.”

 _Slam_.

 

…

 

_When Shuu shows up on her doorstep half-dead and almost short an eye, she frowns at him and asks, “What did you do?”_

_What she gleans from his convoluted, twisty explanation is ‘I tried to play out a weird fantasy, failed, and got repeatedly smacked around by a girl three heads littler than me.’ Not much of a difference from the usual, really. He’s used to being pushed around by smaller women. She’s sure he’ll bravely live on._

“ _That hurts,” he complains as she presses an iodine-soaked cotton pad to his forehead. They’re sitting on the sofa, bathed in the eerie glow from the streetlamps outside. She’s tossed his torn suit aside, leaving him in a tattered button-down shirt and some ratty pants._

“ _Tough nuts, big guy,” she says. “You shouldn’t have gone after the human. If you’re going to eat something, eat it. Don’t… order it to eat something else while you’re eating_ it _. Fuck. That was a complicated sentence.”_

“ _I just wanted to try something new. Ow! You’re putting too much pressure on it!”_

“ _Serves you right,” Nori admonishes, wiping the pad directly across his temple. She drenches a new one and plasters it to his cheek, where a very slow-healing cut has dived deep enough for bone to show. It startles a hiss of pain out of him. “What were you thinking? I’ve got enough stress in my life without having to look after anyone who’s crazy enough to go after someone who has Touka as a friend.”_

“ _I said, I just—”_

“— _wanted to try something new. Yes, we know. However, you won’t be doing any learning if you’re_ dead _, you freaky, overdressed aubergine.”_

_He hesitates at that, and then despite his split lip and the drying blood caked on his temple, smiles a brilliant smile. It makes her heart do a weird jiggly-dancing thing, a lollop, and she’s not sure whether she hates it or loves it._

“ _That means you care, doesn’t it?”_

_She grits her teeth and digs the pad into the cut._

“ _AGH—_ Nori!”

“ _Shut up!”_

 

…

 

“ _Is this really all you have?”_

_Ren coughs nervously and shuffles her feet._

“ _Mostly,” she answers Uta, staring down at her feet. She’s got fuzzy socks on with sticky traction pads underneath in the shape of bear paws. She bought them because they reminded her of Nori—she’d thought she’d lost them for a while, but she found them about a day ago, unexpectedly, stashed in between the couch cushions. She remembers everything, and she has no memory of putting them there, though she’s done stranger things and completely forgotten about them… though that was years ago. It’s a bit of a mystery, honestly. Perhaps Nori herself misplaced them when they were packing. Who knows?_

“ _There’s a lot of space in here,” Uta says, turning around to look at the openness of his apartment._ Their _apartment now, she supposes. There are pretty paintings on the walls—they’re pretty much entirely covered, whether be it in framed pieces of art or just papers full of sketchy figures plainly taped up on corkboards. It’s like looking at a map of faces and silhouettes. She loves looking at it, and now she’s going to have all the time in the world to do that._

“ _I noticed,” she says with a laugh._

“ _And you can fill it up,” he returns. He never outright teases her—not blatantly, anyway—but she can mark the playfulness in his voice just fine, when it does show up. His offhanded affectionate comment has her turning red. He seems to do that a lot to her._

“ _I’ll, uh… try my best?” Ren offers._

_She has no idea how to mediate exchanges like this—she’s read about it, and she once thought that was a little helpful. In truth, it doesn’t do much of anything to prepare you for the real thing. The facts in her head are always present, even though most coherent cognitive function flies out and away from her mind when Uta’s near. She’s lived her whole life by an odd mixture of method and instinct, so the intensity of any given feeling surprises her. She wonders if it’s possible to burst from love, and if it is, she’s surely destined for a future of combustion._

“ _Change that question to a statement and we’re good to go,” Uta says, drawing her out of her thoughts. He stretches out a hand, palm up. “Come on. You haven’t seen the view from the bedroom yet.”_

_That’s true. She hasn’t been here more than eleven or twelve visits, though they’ve known each other for quite a while. They actually spend more time—spent, now that she’s moved out—in her own flat above Anteiku._

“ _Okay,” she concedes, and lets him take her hand. He leads her down the hallway adjacent to the living room. They pass the door to the bathroom (a bathroom which is actually quite big), and then, before they arrive at their destination, she realizes this is as far as she’s ever gone. The first thing to draw her attention is the desk across the bed. It’s littered with loose sketchbook pages, scissors of differing sizes, and patches of mismatched fabrics. Uta, though, is pointing at something else. Her eyes grow wide._

“ _I take it your silence is a good sign?”_

“ _Oh, wow,” Ren says at last. She breaks away from him to slide the balcony open. There’s a tiny step downward at the edge of the veranda, and she goes to the bottom to lean on the railing. “I can_ really _see Mount Fuji from here!”_

_Uta joins her. “The weather’s good today, so it’s pretty clear. Good luck.”_

“Awesome _luck,” she amends. The skyline is full of towering skyscrapers, glass windows glinting and winking in the sun, and beyond rises the white-capped peak of Fuji, in stark relief against the beautiful cornflower-blue of the great above. “Nori’s place had a lovely view, but from here…”_

“ _Shinjuku’s a little nearer than Nerima. It makes all the difference. The placement of HySy is convenient, too.”_

“ _It’s wonderful!” Ren exclaims. A happy laugh bubbles out of her. “I feel like I could fall into the sky.”_

_She jumps a bit when the warmth from Uta’s body starts seeping through her thin shirt. He’s moved closer, pressing his front to her back, and after a second his arms slide around her, caging her between the railing and him. His hands rest beside hers, just barely brushing. Hers look plain in comparison to his, the surfaces of which are tattooed with swirling designs and complicated patterns—Nori’s work. She’s caught up in observing them when he nestles his chin in the crook of her neck, kissing the shell of her ear. The stair he’s standing on creates the illusion that he’s taller. She likes it._

“ _I love you,” he murmurs. A fizz of joy rushes through her, like it always does when he says that._

_She laughs again at the ticklish feeling of his breath on her skin. “And I love you. I think living here’s going to be very nice.”_

“ _I agree.”_

 

…

 

 

The only thing she can think of while she looks at the various, small piles of her assorted possessions is _I was so stupid._

Nori offers to help her put it away. She accepts. It doesn’t feel like it’s happening. Is she destined to constantly move from place to place, never really having a home, always on the run? She’s been running her whole life. From the CCG. Herself. Anteiku. The truth. Is it ever going to end?

“You’ve been extremely thorough,” Ren says. She’s holding a droopy sweater, the one she favored sleeping in. She’s not sure she wants to wear it anymore. “I highly doubted you could even find half of these things.”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I wouldn’t let him have your stuff,” Nori reminds her. “I didn’t miss anything, right?”

“No,” Ren says in assurance. “Everything is here.”

“Good. Where do you want me to put this… bunny?”

“The bed is fine.”

Nori does as she’s told just as Ren discovers her cellphone in the pocket of the jacket she pulls out from the bottom of a box. The miniature bells attached to the hamster charm hanging from it ring merrily as she opens it, and continue to chime while she blinks at the screen.

“…Thirty seven missed calls and messages?”

Nori freezes over the plastic bag she’s emptying, pretty hands stopping mid-movement. “I—uh—I wasn’t sure if you were being stupid about answering or you’d just forgotten it. I stopped after a while, didn’t I? Don’t look at me like that! How the fuck is it even working after so long?”

Ren considers the question. Her stomach drops at the answer she comes up with. “He… must have kept it charged.”

“What a creep,” Nori concludes with the finality most of her statements carry. She hasn’t ever been unsure about anything—or, at least, she doesn’t show anyone if she is. Ren wishes she could be like that, sometimes. She’s always caught up in thinking about everything. Nori _does_. It has its drawbacks, she supposes. Maybe that’s why they work well together.

The cellphone seems heavy now. She picked it out sometime during her stay at Anteiku. She’d been with Uta when she chose the charms, had asked him what he thought. He’d just smiled.

“It suits you.”

Apparently, crying had suited her too.

“Hey. You okay?”

Ren turns her eyes to Nori. “Fine.”

Nori probably doesn’t believe her. She’s never been good at lying, anyway.

 

…

 

_Kaneki has just finished putting the last of the saucers back in the cupboard. They’ve been washed, dried, and polished. Everything is as it should be. Now he can start closing up shop. He sighs and wipes at his forehead with the back of one hand. A shower would be nice. He looks around for the wipe he uses to wax the counters. He’s sure he put it somewhere around table four, but he can’t see it at this moment._

“ _Where did it go? I need to finish up here…”_

_And suddenly, as though by magic, the wipe appears from a space on his left, like a divine gift._

“ _I believe you’re looking for this.”_

_He heaves a sigh of deep relief. “Oh, man, thank you!” He takes it and turns around to begin his final chore, and then—wait a second… who handed him the wipe?_

_Kaneki shrieks and knocks his knees into the underside of the counter when Ren—seems to, he knows she doesn’t, but it_ really looks like it _—practically materializes from the shadows in the corner of the room. The impact to his knees sends him staggering, and the next thing he smashes into an unyielding surface is his forehead. He reels for a moment and then falls back-first onto the floor, and because whatever is up there in heaven appears to love laughing at him, the wipe he was holding neatly makes a circle in the air, and settles on his face._

“ _Ugh…”_

_Something peels the wipe back from his face. It’s Ren, looking down at him, her big eyes filled with concern. Her unbound hair is brushing at his nose. She smells nice. She is entirely too close. Ren doesn’t seem to have a concept of personal space._

“ _Are you alright? You did hit that counter with unpleasant momentum.”_

_He blinks, trying to get rid of the spinning dots of black that have broken across his vision. “Yeah… I did. I’m okay.”_

_Now her expression becomes thoughtful. “Your being prostrate seems to indicate otherwise. Would you like help getting up?”_

“ _No, don’t worry about it,” he says as he somehow achieves the miraculous feat of standing on his own two feet. “…How long were you standing there?”_

“ _You seemed quite focused when you came into the room to finish your chores, and so I thought bothering you wouldn’t be very beneficial,” Ren explains. Which means she’d been standing there the whole time, and he hadn’t noticed. At all. Even with his supposedly newfound, heightened senses. That’s… unsettling. She’s still in her uniform, but her hair is loose, which means she’s off-duty._

“ _I wouldn’t have minded,” he informs her, self-consciously patting down his own clothes. “Are you waiting for something?”_

“ _Nori is coming to pick me up. We have plans for this evening,” she says. Ah. Her friend. The short, pretty lady with the silver hair and the voice that does not match her size. She scares him._

“ _Oh. I see.”_

“ _Do you need assistance with the maintenance of the counters?”_

 _He laughs a little, partly because of her studious formality, and partly because if he wanted the help, he wouldn’t ask for it. He can’t. He can’t_ impose _. “I don’t have much to do. Don’t trouble yourself.”_

“ _It is no trouble. But if you’re sure…”_

“ _I am. No worries.”_

_Ren watches him go about his business, just as still as before, and it’s not long before they both hear a car pull up in the driveway._

_The lady slams the door open like it’s a mortal enemy. The autumn wind blows into the store as it shuts. Her hair is tied up messily, and most of her clothes—as Kaneki has come to expect—are ripped. “Here I am!”_

“ _Hi,” Ren says, waggling her fingers at Nori._

“ _Are the Yo folks around?”_

_Ren shrugs. “Both upstairs.”_

“ _Good. Ey, kid, how’s it going?”_

_Kaneki freezes. “Ah… well enough. Not much change. You?”_

_Nori shrugs, the pointed shoulder-pads of her jacket moving with her. “I just want to kill everything in sight. So, the usual.”_

_He gulps, and she laughs loudly._

“ _I was joking, kid. Mostly.”_

“ _Ha ha…”_

“ _Let’s get going before I give him an aneurysm,” Nori goes on. “You can get changed in the car, right?”_

_Ren is nodding. “No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow, Kaneki.”_

“ _Oh. Yes.”_

“ _And I’ll see you… whenever,” Nori says, waving at him offhandedly. She strides out of the store, and there’s a predatory slope to her steps though the feet that are making them aren’t too long._

_He looks at them go, sees Ren’s smile through the lightly frosted-glass of the door. She’s talking animatedly, but he can’t hear anything from where he’s standing. Most ghouls would be able to. He’s not good enough. Or not ghoul enough. Neither option seems very appealing to think about. The two women pack into Nori’s car and it veers off into the streets with definitely more speed than is generally recommended. He’s naïve, but not entirely stupid. They’re probably going hunting. Ren has been distancing herself from the manager lately. There’s been a cold air between them for a while now, and he hasn’t missed the taciturn stares exchanged by Ren and Yomo._

_Kaneki wonders what it’d be like to be firmly in one state of mind. To instinctively know right from wrong. To have the certainty Anteiku has. That Nori has. He feels like someone is holding a spool in which everything he is or was is caught up in—his memories, his ideals, his goals, his life—and on the other end is a hand that’s tugging, making the spool spoil and come undone, pulling it apart, destroying one coil of conviction after another with every yank._

_He wonders what it’d be like… to be able to breathe._

 

…

 

She usually wakes up the first time she dies in her dreams.

In this one, she kept falling. Hitting the ground. Starting up from the top again. Staring down at the empty street from the railing, counting the white stripes as she hurtled toward the asphalt. Over and over, like a scratched DVD stuck repeating the same scene again and again. She’d read somewhere that the brain sometimes has no real life substitute to draw from when you dream, and so the experience cannot be supplanted by something similar that happened in your waking life.

Normally, people don’t know what it’s like to have every bone in their body broken. She does. She remembers the cracks and the thuds and the crackling sounds the calcium made as the healing took over for her and set things straight. It’s like fire, breaking a bone, so painful it feels as though you’re never going to stand again, or hold a glass, flex your fingers. They’d started with the feet and moved onto the hands, taking note of how long it took her to get back into shape after the break. Her brain knows. The experience is there.

And she kept falling. And kept falling. And the bones kept snapping, and shattering, and fracturing. And she kept screaming, but no one could hear. No one would care. They just kept watching.

She has to lie there amongst the twisted sheets for a few moments, regaining her bearings, remembering that there was no pavement under her bed, and that she wouldn’t plummet anywhere if she stepped outside of the confines of the mattress. She gets up and makes it down the stairs though the light stings her eyes. Nori promised to stay over tonight. She’s glad she made Nori promise. Promises can be broken. But Nori’s never broken one of hers.

Ren shambles into the waiting room with its drawn blinds. Nori is still at the counter sorting through accounts and receipts like she had been when Ren went upstairs to sleep, and at noticing Ren she puts her pen down and pulls the fringe out of her face.

“You okay?”

That’s the second time Nori’s asked her that today.

“No,” Ren says, and then she starts to shiver. The sweat on her skin is making her cold. She sits down on the sofa set aside for waiting clients and continues to shiver there, seated, focusing on the way the individual strands of her hair are sticking to the back of her neck because of the perspiration. She’s going to be sick.

Nori comes to sit next to her. “Can I do anything?”

“No,” Ren repeats. “Bad dreams. Just need… to sit in the light a bit.”

At least that’s what she thinks she needs, but she knows that really isn’t it. Her fingers shake. She presses them together.

“Nori?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Can you—can you please… go see if anyone’s standing outside?” Ren says. It’s almost a whisper.

She can’t describe Nori’s expression right then. “I… sure. Let me check.”

Nori carefully separates the halfway divide of the blinds and peers out into the street. Her lovely eyes dart around, blinking, her long lashes making a _frush-frush_ sound on the alloy of the blinds. “No. No one’s there.”

“Okay,” Ren murmurs. She draws her knees up to hug them. Wearing one big shirt isn’t the warmest arrangement when you’re freezing because of sweating in terror. She has her lucky hamster boxer-shorts on. That has to help. It has to.

Her head is bowed, so she doesn’t see Nori when Nori returns.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into her oversized shirt.

“What? No. Don’t be. Whatever makes you feel better. I’m here, alright? No matter what. Just remember that.”

Ren sniffs when her eyes start to sting. She’s not going to cry. She’s been doing that for the last five days, in copious amounts, and she refuses to do any more.

“Thank you.”

A small hand ruffles the hair at the top of her head, the driest part. “Don’t mention it.”

 

 


	10. Dear Future Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT DEAD. just slogging through rl as usual. hope you enjoy this installment!!

 

I'VE LEARNED THAT MATURITY HAS MORE TO DO WITH WHAT TYPES  
OF EXPERIENCES YOU'VE HAD AND WHAT YOU'VE LEARNED FROM THEM,  
AND LESS TO DO WITH HOW MANY BIRTHDAYS YOU'VE CELEBRATED.

 

. . .

 

 

 

 

There are few things Ren loves more than hot water, but today its comfort seems somehow less effective than ever before.  
  
She sits there under the spray of the showerhead, diligently shaving the expanse of one of her shins—she remembers learning that this was something people did on a regular basis, and not being able to understand why.  
  
“Hair grows,” she'd said, perplexed, to Nori.  
  
“Yeah, it sure does. It's gross.”  
  
“Is the removal process a cultural bylaw? Is it expected?”  
  
Nori had snorted, her pretty painted lips lifting in a sneer. “It fuckin' well should be. I don't do hairy. On _anyone_ .”  
  
She'd considered that for a moment, and then asked: “Does that include hair in regions like—”  
  
_Slam_ , Nori had crushed her mug to the table, cutting her off. “Yes. _Especially there_ .”  
  
Those times seem far away, like they happened to someone else entirely, not the person in the shower right now, living in the little apartment above INC. What is she now? The fool, she supposes. Nori helped her unpack. The boxes are gone, but nothing's been organized. She's dreading touching all the belongings she left behind. Each one has a memory attached to it, a thread that runs back to everything she doesn't want to dwell on. Melodramatic, really, but nothing to be done about it. She'll have to change her phone number, she thinks, and find something to cover her face with during hunts—something that _won't_ fall apart easily.  
  
It's strange, being close to Nori and Shuu again, and waking up in a bed every morning. She doesn't miss the streets, not really, but there'd been a comforting sense of being lost and anonymous there that she doesn't have when she's owning up to being _Ren_ . Who is Ren? She's been trying to answer that question for a while—the answer should be obvious. Ren is Ren and no one else. She is herself. But has she had time to truly become herself, or is she only what others wanted to be, what they— _shaped_ her to be? Would she be different if she'd been allowed to grow... naturally? (Of course she would be, the voice in her head informs her, saying otherwise is intellectually dishonest and _incorrect_ ).  
  
She stays still for a good minute or two after she finishes shaving her legs, sets aside the razor, and absentmindedly runs her hands over the now-smooth skin.  
  
“I want to be pretty,” she'd told Nori once, on an afternoon where they'd been sitting together in front of the TV set at her place, watching a science-fiction movie that Nori adores.  
  
“You're already pretty, babe,” Nori had assured her.  
  
“No, no—I mean, I want... I want to be pretty _like you_ . You seem very adept in applying face-colors and... I want to learn. If—that is alright.”  
  
Her friend had blinked at her, and then smiled that wolfish smile that she's so well-known for, full of sharp beauty. “Thought you'd never ask.”  
  
The large mirror in the bathroom has fogged by the time she climbs out of the shower, and for the two seconds it takes her to wrap a towel around her midriff, she's accosted by a feeling of—meaninglessness. It'd been stupid to count on someone else for that much, stupid to depend on someone else for that much _happiness_ . She's done it with Nori, too, not just the—not just _him_ . Maybe that's why she's such an easy person to use. She reaches out and swipes her hand over the mirror, clearing a streak on its surface, revealing the reflection beneath; she stares at it for a while, and remembers the first time she saw herself in INC's gigantic hanging mirror—she hadn't recognized the person in the glass.  
  
But now she knows: the one who's looking back at her is Ren, and Ren is nothing more or less than what she'll make her to be.  
  
_Who can I trust? Myself. Nori. Tsukiyama. I can trust the investigators to be predictable. I can trust myself. Myself. Me._

“You're too nice,” Nori had liked saying, not very long ago.  
  
Maybe 'nice,' Ren thinks as the steam from the shower swirls around her, is only for people who _earn_ it.

 

 

…

 

 

It's late afternoon when Nori jiggles the door to the apartment above INC open, balancing a mountain of sketches and an armful of notebooks. She expects to see Ren somewhere by the counter, or the window, the place she haunts like a dedicated sentinel, but the six foot something upright disaster is in neither place—Nori dumps her heavy load on the kitchen table, yanking the tie from her hair to let her abused scalp have a break, and then sets out to the small living room.  
  
And, as expected, there's what she was looking for: Ren is curled up on the couch, face squished into the cushions, hands tucked up underneath her chin, looking younger than twenty-eight in a too-floppy shirt and silly boxer shorts, breathing softly. Asleep, as usual. Is there a place where Ren can't doze off? Probably not. Nori's caught her snoozing everywhere from the bathtub to an open-roofed car. It's like she's making up for the years of sleeplessness she said she experienced—and there's been nothing to contradict that what Ren's admitted to Nori about her time in the facility as anything but the truth. It took almost an entire three months for her to be comfortable enough to sleep in Nori's presence, and once she started, she didn't stop.  
  
Not that Nori minds. She doesn't fidget a lot or anything when she goes under, just drops like a rock and wakes up however many hours later. Nori approaches the couch, not being careful about keeping the noise down. Ren won't be startled out of slumber by anything short of a nuclear explosion. _Crinkle_ . Nori looks down, to where a sheet of paper's caught under the sharp heel of her boot. She lifts her foot, kicking away the pen she nearly tripped over, and casts a cursory glance over what seems to be a list. It's written in Ren's crisp penmanship—Nori has always admired that despite only learning to write rather recently, Ren's letters are characteristically neat, easy to read, with excellent spelling. The advantages of an eidetic memory, apparently.  
  
The top of the list reads _Things I Know_. Odd title. Nori's eyes move on downward, and the further on she moves through the numbers, the further the funny senstation at the bottom of her stomach expands.

 

    1. _Ren Hitotose. My name._

    2. _I was born on the fifteenth of March._

    3. _Mama liked flowers. Papa had dimples. She loved black tea._

    4. _Nori is my friend._

    5. _She would never hurt me (intentionally)._

    6. _I like pink._

    7. _I like sunsets._

    8. _I love marrow._

    9. _My head is 37 cm in diameter. Mama said it was big for my age._

    10. _I like to read._

    11. _Shuu is a good person._

    12. _Butterflies scare easily._

    13. _My blood type is AB._

    14. _I hate being lonely._

    15. _I have to be stronger._

    16. _I would do anything for them._




 

There's no good estimation for what reading the entire thing makes her feel, so instead of focusing on it—because feelings are for pussies, she thinks—she puts the list down and leans over to poke Ren on the forehead. _Poke, poke_ . It takes three of those for her friend to start stirring, blinking sleepily, and Nori thinks she looks rather funny with a red spot between her eyes where Nori jabbed at her.  
  
“Mmh... is it tea time? I can't eat the biscuits, though...”  
  
Nori laughs despite herself. “Rise and shine, babe.”  
  
Ren flops back to the couch, covering her face with the long sleeves of her sweater. “I'm not in Wonderland, then?”  
  
“No such luck,” Nori says. “I'm better than a stoner caterpillar, though, right?”  
  
Ren nods in agreement, and then reaches up to smooth down her bangs, which are sticking out comically, courtesy of being pressed against the couch cushions for too long.

“You want coffee?”  
  
“Mhm,” is Ren's answer, and Nori bustles about to make that wish become a reality.  
  
Soon the coffee machine is spluttering and working hard, the water gurgling down through the filter to turn into Nori's favorite—plain black coffee, perfectly bitter. Not that she can drink anything else, anyway, but she has a feeling that even if she did, she'd still prefer it without any embellishment. It's just _good_ , you know? Not better than actual food, but almost as good. She picks out two mugs for them both, and waits out the time needed by standing, nails clicking on the countertop as she watches the clock on the coffee machine wind down. It's only a few more minutes until they're sipping at their respective mugs. Nori's flicking through her latest texts, and Ren's curled up on the edge of the couch, toes digging into the fabric. There's something very sad and distant in Ren's eyes, and she's not talking. Which is... not like her.  
  
“Alright, that's it,” Nori says, and sets her mug down—after forcefully shoving her cellphone into one of her jacket's pockets. She shuffles closer to Ren and claps Ren's face between her hands.  
  
Ren looks down at her friend, at the intruding fingers stretching her cheeks out. She says, “What are you doing?” but it comes out sounding more like _Wath arr yoo dewing?_ than anything else. Nori frowns, pulling harder. “Ow!”  
  
“It's weird as fuck not seeing you smile,” Nori grumbles, yanking some more. “You can't sit around and mope all day.”  
  
Ren blinks at her, quite composed for someone whose face is being tugged in different directions. “I do not _mope_ .”  
  
“Yes, you do.”  
  
“I do not.”  
  
“You fucking do, and it's cramping my style.”  
  
Ren makes a whining sound that sounds oddly reminiscent of a kicked puppy. “You're going to make me spill my coffee!”  
  
Nori just grins nastily, pinching at Ren's dimples. “If you do it'll be _your_ problem. This apartment's not mine anymore, remember? Everything in here's yours, which means any stains are yours to deal with, too.”  
  
“You're mean.”  
  
“Damn straight, fluffball.”  
  
“I'm—”  
  
“Don't say 'sorry,' or I'll—”  
  
“—hit me, yes,” Ren finishes with a sigh. She takes a sip from her hot drink, resigned. “What would you like me to do?”  
  
“I have an idea,” Nori says, pulling her hands away at last. “But you'll have to trust me. No questions asked.”  
  
Ren smiles faintly, the first time this entire week. “That's fine.”  
  
“You'd be the easiest person to kidnap, you know that?”  
  
“Only if the abductor was in possession of copious amounts of marrow,” Ren mumbles into her mug.  
  
“Gross,” Nori says, wrinkling her nose, and then leans back with her own drink in hand.  
  
“It's very nutritious.”  
  
“And what someone could use as bribery to get you into a van without plates, apparently.”  
  
Ren shrugs. “Most vans have weak spots above the carburetor, anyway.”  
  
Nori laughs a little. “I _won't_ ask how you know that.”

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

“Where are we going?” Ren asks.  
  
“Places,” Nori says vaguely, shutting the car door behind her. “Didn't I say _no questions asked_ ?”  
  
“Oh. Alright.”  
  
Shuu turns around in his seat, looking mortified. “What kind of an answer is that? And why are you accepting it without preamble?”  
  
Nori lifts her lips at him in a mini-sneer. “Because she knows to _trust_ the one in charge.”  
  
“I'd trust you more if you adhered to the speed limit,” Shuu replies as he scrambles to buckle his seatbelt.  
  
“Pfft,” Nori scoffs. “ _Speed limits_. They're just guidelines. And guidelines suck.”

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

Ren had insisted on using some of the stipend Yoshimura had given her upon quitting Anteiku to buy the bird-cage and the beginnings of its food. Nori stares at the fluffy creature behind the bars with marked disinterest. It hasn't even been living in the apartment for two minutes and already the space is pervaded by a salty, dusty sort of smell that comes from the heat of feathers. It makes her nose twitch, makes her wanna sneeze. The bird itself isn't at its full size—as the person at the sanctuary had dutifully informed them—but it's sizable already, with a pair of beady eyes that are too intelligent for Nori's liking.  
  
“You gonna name it?” Nori asks, and Ren nods as she lifts a bag of bird food onto the kitchen countertop.  
  
“Purin,” Ren says, smiling a little. “A bit girly for a boy—but I think it suits him. Besides, pudding looks tasty...”  
  
Nori won't request an elaboration on the logic that went into that decision. She probably wouldn't understand anyway.  
  
“The hell did you say he was again?”  
  
“A pink cockatoo,” Ren informs her all too happily.  
  
“Why ' _cock_ atoo?'” Nori says, sucking on her teeth with her lips. Man, she's hungry. “Why not ' _spruce_ atoo' or at least something that sounds more inviting and evokes an image other than _dick_ ?”  
  
“He doesn't _look_ like a phallus,” Ren observes, standing back to stare at the bird swinging from its detachable perch.  
  
Nori makes a disgusted noise. “If that crest is flared, true. Wouldn't be like any dick _I've_ ever seen...”  
  
“Perhaps we can ask Shuu for reference? It's always better to have a wider pool of options—”  
  
“ _No_ .”  
  
That's good enough for Ren, who goes back to bustling around and setting things right. It'd taken about twenty minutes to get to the avian sanctuary, but only two more for Ren to realize why Nori had taken her there—maybe it was nicer than Nori thought it would have been, seeing Ren's eyes light up with recognition and delight. Shuu had complained about the smells (not like she'd been enjoying herself, either), but had conceded to admitting that among the inhabitants of the sanctuary itself, there were rather spectacular colors and arrays of plumage. Ren had disappeared into the display aisle at some point—it's kind of a relief that it's pretty much impossible to lose sight of her, since she has a habit of trailing around like a noiseless, too-tall ghost.  
  
The volunteer that'd helped them out had been _way_ too cheery for someone who works surrounded by bird shit all day, so while Nori had lagged about in the back with Shuu as company, Ren had engaged her and started up a conversation that involved more information about birds than Nori is content to know.  
  
“Which one do you want to see?” the lady had asked, and Ren had sort of—jerked back, like it was a surprise, and then looked over her shoulder—Nori still can't understand why Ren seeks out permission (Nori's never asked for permission, not once). It's not like Nori's her boss, or, heaven forbid, Ren's _mom_ , but she'd shrugged anyway and Ren _skipped_ in place before turning around to point at the bird furthest from all the others in the communal enclosure. Outcasts, it seems, is the theme of their group.  
  
“So,” Nori starts, shuffling her feet.  
  
Ren brushes off her pants. Birdseed goes clattering to the floor. “So...?”  
  
“You... you happy now?”  
  
Probably not the most eloquent way to pose a question. Because feelings suck. And Nori sucks at feelings. Fuck.  
  
“Purin and I will make many happy memories,” Ren says, nodding, but then reaches out to place one hand on Nori's head. The action's not demeaning or condescending. Just reassuring—because Ren knows how to be that best. “But that you did something you usually wouldn't for me is what makes me happiest. You're the best friend.”  
  
Nori thinks about what to say next— _honest_ , she does really think about it (for about three point three milliseconds), and only feels marginally embarrassed by what she ends up spitting out.  
  
“You're so fuckin' _gay.”_  
  
Ren laughs and retracts her hand. “I believe I just said I was happy.”  
  
“You know what I meant!”  
  
And it's true—she did. That's why Nori isn't scared of trusting her.  
  
That's why this is safe.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 _She wakes up sometime after ten—she knows for sure because she checks the (surprisingly pristine) old little clock sitting on Shuu's nightstand. The morning haze of sleep is still too heavy for her to come to a logical conclusion about the question “where is he?”, but the answer comes when the door to the spacious bedroom swings open gently to reveal him standing there. Her first thought is something along the lines of_ wow, he looks great in rumpled clothes _, and the second is—whatever it was, it'd been overwhelmed by the wafting scent of excellent coffee. “Nothing but the best,” he'd said yesterday night, just about three minutes before they fell in a tangled mess to the mattress._  
  
“ _Bonjour,” Shuu says as he comes to sit at the bedside. The cushions sink under his weight, and Nori props herself up in response, trying not to yawn_ too _widely—morning breath is not exactly the thing she'd like to show off most at this moment. The sheets she'd bunched up around herself fall to her waist, and she only belatedly remembers she kinda forgot to put anything on. In her defense, she'd been asleep till now, and she doesn't really give a shit about modesty. Not in his presence, anyway. Besides, it's not like she's terrible to look at (she very well knows she isn't, based on varying and reliable sources, and, well, the mirror)._  
  
“ _Morning,” she replies, cursing her voice for being cracked and dry and weird. She doesn't bend too far over the tray to smell the coffee because that would mean wet hair—Ren's called it 'mermaid length,' and Nori supposes she's not too far off._  
  
“ _You are alright?” he asks, breaking her from her thoughts._  
  
“ _...Fine,” she answers despite building suspicion. She reaches out and plucks the hot mug from the proffered tray, savoring the warmth as it floods her fingers. “Why wouldn't I be?”_  
  
“ _I did get rather carried away yesterday. I was only wondering if you were—well, sore,” he says without preamble, and she almost gifts him with a wonderful face-full of sprayed coffee. Thankfully, she has practice—Ren always says stupid-ass things while she's drinking, and it's become second nature to avoid choking. She swallows her mouthful of coffee and regards the man across her, the one who went from stranger to nuisance to fuckbuddy to—boyfriend. That still feels so weird to think. But she has this odd hunch that it won't be difficult to get used to._  
  
“ _I'm not made of porcelain,” Nori mumbles. Why do people always want to_ chat _about fooling around? Itori had done this too—pillow-talk, she'd called it, and Nori hates it. You pin someone down, you have your way with them, they have their way with you, sometimes several times in a row, and that's it. Beautifully simple. Doesn't need to be disseminated. Doesn't need to be examined. Most certainly does not need to be widely discussed, either._  
  
“ _Neither am I,” Shuu says, smiling brightly._  
  
“ _Yeah, your headboard knows,” she quips before she can take adequate measures to stop the instinctive sarcasm. His smile becomes devious, and she feels heat flood her face. “Can we talk about—something else?”_  
  
_He inclines his head. “Whatever the lady wishes.”_  
  
“ _I_ wish _you'd stop doing that,” Nori says. Quick, more coffee. That gives her an excuse for not being able to blab._  
  
“ _Stop doing what, my lady?”_  
  
_The look in his eyes tells her he knows exactly what she means. Fucker. Stupid pretty fucker with his perfect hair and nice collarbone and... really goddamn awesome hands..._  
  
_She focuses on the bars of light sifting through the window, the glint of them on the smooth marble floor. She doesn't know anyone else who's got marble floors in their bedroom. Not even Itori, and she'd been high-maintenance. Makes Nori glad she'd never invested anything really material in_ that... _liaison. At that point, feelings had been unacceptable to think about—not even an option. Feelings were a liability. That kind of trust made you weak. Vulnerable. Easy to manipulate. And yet here she is, sitting in Shuu's bed, surrounded by his no-doubt handpicked silk sheets, the shape of her body imprinted on his mattress, curved along the groove where he'd been lying. They fit together, and it doesn't—it doesn't seem out of place. She likes him, and it's_ good _to not have to maneuver around admitting that anymore._  
  
_Maybe this is a new kind of power. It could have its advantages. She's never one to say no to more strength. Nori moves her attention back to him when she finishes her drink (it doesn't take her long to be done with her first mug), and her heart jumps when she realizes he's been staring at her this whole time. His expression—she has to slam the mug down on the tray, which is now resting on the nightstand, before having the courage to face him (and the dumb fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach)._  
  
“ _What're you looking at?”_  
  
“ _I can't believe you're real,” he blurts, and she blinks, not knowing how to take that, but he rushes to elaborate. “I mean—of course you are. Perhaps I phrased that badly. What I wanted to say was: I can't believe you're here. And that you want to be. I can't believe you're with me, that you confessed what you did. I'm simply saying that I am a very lucky man,_ mon tresór. _It's not something I'm used to.”_  
  
_She has difficulty registering the entirety of what he said, so she'll just—one thing at a time. “Did you just call me—”_  
  
“ _'My treasure?' I did. Can I not speak the truth?”_  
  
“ _You—you—”_  
  
_That's all she manages to get out in between sputtering like a moron. He just keeps smiling that serene smile, like absolutely nothing's wrong, and it's nearly possible for her to believe that. At least inside the confines of this room, in this house, between him and her, nothing_ is _wrong, and that's the best news she's had in months._  
  
“ _Indeed, me.”_  
  
“ _How can you say stuff like that with a straight face?!”_  
  
“ _It_ _'s a gift,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “There's nothing embarrassing about being honest.”_  
  
“ _What's embarrassing is how easy you gave in,” she says, and then belatedly realizes that sounds rampantly ungrateful. “Not that—I just thought... er... I didn't think you'd forgive me. Is... what I'm trying to... that's what I—yeah. Fuck.”_  
  
_She doesn't see him stretch out a hand because she's too busy staring at her knees and trying to ignore the fact that she's been embarrassing herself on a consistent basis since last night and that this will probably be an_ ongoing pattern _from now on—but all of that grinds to a halt when he carefully parts the strands of hair hanging by her eyes with gentle fingers. No one's ever touched her so cautiously._  
  
_It's very close to impossible to look back at him, but she somehow succeeds to. Just a shy dart of an eye beneath the lashes._  
  
_He leans in so that his nose is brushing at her forehead, ticklish and cool._  
  
“ _I forgave you when you stepped inside.”_  
  
_That makes the heat from her cheeks magically jump to her eyes, and she has to blink rapidly to stop anything irreversible happening. Her makeup does not need more help with looking like shit._  
  
“ _Idiot,” she murmurs. He laughs, and presses a kiss to the space between her brows._  
  
“ _But your idiot,” he corrects._  
  
“ _I like the sound of that,” she says softly._  
  
“ _Good.”_

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 _The tender skin on her back still throbs when she walks._  
  
_Ren stopped thinking in coherent words long ago. It's images now, smells, phantom feelings and wants. Food. Food and water. She'd been able to sneak some from a fountain yesterday, when the custodian of the apartment building she'd been lurking around had gone off to do something, but her mouth today is dry as a shoe. She needs to rest before going on to—wherever it is she means to get to. As far away from that place as she can get. It's still not far enough. The city around her has changed, the buildings are taller, the people are quieter. No one stops to help, to ask her what's wrong. But that's not new. That's the only thing familiar about this situation._  
  
_The asphalt is cool against the abused soles of her feet. It'd feel good if she weren't physically incapable of focusing on something other than the all-consuming drive to eat. When was the last time she had a meal? Days. And it wouldn't matter, it wouldn't matter at all, but she's had to heal over and over and over, and it's exhausted her. The fire kept burning through, and her body, diligent and conditioned, kept repairing the damage. She'd sat up amongst the ashes and smoking rubble, staring at her armored hands, wondering why she was alive. Isn't that always the question?_  
  
_Some few minutes later she finds a dark corner to collapse in, out of sight of the main street—she's afraid someone will see, discover her,_ take her back _. It's burned and gone, all turned to dust, but the fear is there. It always will be. She knows that. How much of her is it going to govern? Everything, her mind says as she slides down against the bricks making up the alleyway's wall. There are garbage bags everywhere around her, neatly tied shut, uniform, black. Her bony elbows bang on the dumpster to her left while she descends, though the pain doesn't even really register. She's in the trash, she thinks. Where everyone seems to think she belongs._  
  
_She drifts in and out of a delirious half-sleep, hovering between the border of wakefulness and the deep void of dreamless unconsciousness, her temple pressed against the cool metal of the dumpster's side. It's the most comfortable she's been in days. Not even the revolting mix of rot and spoiled human food can put her off. It must be winter, judging by the cold—she can see her breath misting every time she exhales, and the sight of something so simply beautiful and_ ordinary _would have been enough to make her eyes sting with tears, if she had any to cry. But the air in her lungs is fresh, biting, chilly, and it's the best she's breathed in years. She can inhale as deeply as she wants. There's no collar to restrict her. The fire had heated it, softened it, and she'd torn it to pieces with her bare hands when she'd staggered to her feet amidst the debris, crushing the the metal with its smug little red light under her heel._  
  
_Ren wishes she could conjure that anger right now—she's just tired, and empty. Her own thoughts feel too loud, echoing too far and unrelenting in the silent yawning chasm that's swallowed her mind. She has to keep going. Keep existing. She dozes off again a minute later, knocking her head against the dumpster. She's about to shut her eyes again when a voice cuts through the haze, clear and sharp as day, and something in the darkening alleyway moves._  
  
“ _Live, Ren. I know you can do it.”_  
  
_She tries to say it, tries to ask, “Mom?”, to lift her hand, to do_ anything _, but she's turned to stone, too cold and miserable to even summon the strength to move. A shadow appears at the end of the alleyway, just barely delineated by virtue of the streetlamps. There's a clatter, the sound of scratching and resistance, and then she feels it: a small, smooth object, come to rest against the skin of her left calf. She doesn't recognize it, doesn't care to look. Someone must have dropped it on their way by. Will they stop to search for it, whatever it is? They may find her. The thought makes her chest seize with terror. In this state, she can't fight, she can't—_  
  
“ _Fuck. Where the hell did it—ugh. This is just what I need. Go ahead, Nori! Crawl on your knees. In the trash. Of course there's trash. Why? Because life likes taking a piss on me, that's why.”_  
  
_The angry grumbling continues as the person—a woman, from the sound of it—shuffles into the alleyway, and Ren can only watch with increasing horror as the shadow creeps closer to her hiding spot. She should have gone further in, not fallen flat at the first sign of shelter. A stupid mistake. The bags farthest from her crinkle and rumple, and a big piece of cardboard tumbles to the side. Her eyes sting from the unexpected light that lets in, but it's soon blocked again—by the stranger, who is wearing the oddest jacket Ren has ever seen. She can't make out any of their features, not yet. A hand, slim and well-kept, reaches out, patting the ground._  
  
“ _Like searching for a needle in a goddamn haystack,” the stranger says, voice so close Ren starts to dearly desire for the ability to melt into the wall and disappear._  
  
_She can grow an exoskeleton of nearly-indestructible biological matter, has survived injuries that would cripple or kill anyone else, has endured trials at the hands of the people in white that make this encounter look like child's play—but now that she has the freedom to fear, it doesn't seem like she'll ever be anything else ever again. The woman rifling through the trash for the item she dropped—that Ren can feel warming feebly on her own skin—is an unknown, and that, more than anything else, at this moment, is too new and frightening to comprehend._  
  
_Ren can mark the instant the stranger realizes she's not alone. She picks up the little contraption she'd dropped, knuckles white, and Ren scrambles back, or_ tries _to scramble back—all she can muster is a sluggish drag of the legs. She can smell the stranger through the thick smells of the rubbish piled high by her: it's a clean, crisp scent, bordering on sweet, but not quite there. That's artificial—or on the natural side of artificial, anyway. But beneath that, beyond the scope of human olfactory capability, she can tell, she can tell what this woman_ really _is, because she's been trained to hunt it out, to find it, to corner it, to kill it. Kill_ them _. The stranger crouching down in front of her is a ghoul, just like her, and this time, after almost seventeen years of torment, she's the one at the mercy of the other._  
  
_Show solidarity, some battered sense of instinct tells her, and a meager heat floods her face and eyes as she lets her kakugan activate. The stranger backs up and freezes, letting the light wash over her, and in the instant that it takes the glow of the streetlamps to fade, Ren begins to believe she's hallucinating._  
  
_How pretty, she thinks as she looks at the stranger, at the crest of the high cheekbones and the dark eyes, the full lips and the fine silvery hair hanging down around the rigid shoulders. Ren stares, and the anxiety begins to drain, just a bit. Only a bit. Mom must have sent her an angel—she decides on that as she slumps back against the wall, because even if that's not the right answer, it gives her a respite she needs._  
  
_Yeah. An angel... sounds nice._

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

“You look especially beautiful today, my dear,” Shuu says, winding an arm around her waist. “Moreso than usual.”  
  
Nori grunts—very unladylike, ha—as he presses a quick kiss to the side of her head. “What do you want?”  
  
“Nothing in particular,” he mumbles against her hair. “Just to have you to myself before Ren arrives.”  
  
“You have me to yourself almost _all day_ , every day,” she points out, but that only makes him smile.  
  
“So?”  
  
She sighs. “Fine, fine."  
  
Nori lets that go on for a bit (she kinda does enjoy this, just them standing there, together, close to each other, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, the warmth of him permeating her entire body, the scent of his expensive cologne fresh in her mind), until she turns around to grab her jacket from the counter and she sees Ren on the last step of the staircase.  
  
“The hell?” she says, forgetting completely about her jacket. “How long have you been there?”  
  
“I didn't want to disturb you. You two are very sweet,” Ren comments.  
  
“That's not an answer.” She tilts her head back to look at Shuu. “Did _you_ know she was there?”  
  
“When you are near me I know nothing else, _ma ch_ _è_ _rie_ .”  
  
“Which means _yes_ .”  
  
Ren walks over to them, barely making a sound, smiling all the while.  
  
“That shirt is very fetching,” Shuu says, and Ren looks down at the article of clothing he'd mentioned. No weird patterns, just a solid, pretty, soft turquoise—not really Nori's type of color, but at least it's not _neon fuchsia._  
  
“Thank you!”  
  
“It's not a retina-bleeder,” Nori agrees, and resumes picking up her jacket—and car keys. “For once.”  
  
The trip downtown doesn't take long. Maybe because of the traffic, maybe because of Nori's love for speeding (Shuu is willing to bet on the second one; he's the first one out of the car, so he can have time to straighten his vest and smooth down his undershirt). It's a lovely day, Ren thinks as they drift in and out of different stores. She stays just a few paces behind both of them, listening to the one-sided bickering going on while Nori tries to—in vain—convince Shuu to stop fussing with her newly-cut hair. She likes watching them interact with each other: Shuu somehow manages to be a perfect gentleman while breaking all barriers of propriety, and he's the only person Ren knows of that is allowed to do so by Nori ( _without_ being turned into a pulp). He stands almost two heads above her, kind of like an overgrown purple beanstalk, limber and flexible, always ready to lean down to her level, always smiling.  
  
He truly does love her, and it makes Ren happy. Nori deserves no less. _Nothing but the best_ .  
  
They wander and Ren loses track of the time, instead becoming wrapped up in observing her friends walk about together. It's funny—just over half a month ago, she'd been slumming around these streets, sleeping under awnings and curling up in alleyways. She remembers the way she came the very first time she'd been in Tokyo at all. The dingy hideout Nori had found her squatting in is not far from here. She'd been so different then: scared and strange and near-mad from the loneliness, physically strong but figuratively powerless. She wishes there were a place she could go to—that Mama or Papa had a grave, and she could speak to it. Perhaps she could do something about that. She'll have to ask Nori.  
  
The sun is at its zenith and the clock near the traffic light reads 2:30 PM when they walk into an art supply store, Nori leading the way confidently.  
  
“I just need some pencils,” she says, pushing the door open with perhaps a little bit too much force after Shuu offers to hold it open for her. “Since mine either keep _disappearing—_ don't look at me like that, I know you take them!—or somehow breaking, I need a good stock.”  
  
“You like 2H and 2B, right? Faber Castell?” Ren asks, and Nori blinks at her, surprised. Ren just smiles. “I remember everything.”  
  
“Yeah, no shit,” Nori says incredulously. “Except stuff like having shoes on your feet or making sure you've got a _shirt on when you answer the door_ .”  
  
“I could tell it was you,” Ren answers with a shrug.  
  
“That makes it even _worse_ .”  
  
“Why am I never around when these things happen?” Shuu sighs, lips pulling down in a frown. “I always seem to miss memorable occurrences...”  
  
Nori scowls. “Let's keep it that way.”  
  
It turns out, however, that the store's layout has changed since Nori came in last, and the pencils are now in another section of the sprawling shop, which is more of an inconvenience than it should be since none of the employees except the clueless girl behind the register (who seems too terrified of Nori to properly answer them anyway) are around to help. Shuu suggests they split up to cover more ground—this is a not-very-subtly-disguised excuse to have Nori to himself. Nori starts to reject the idea, but Ren just agrees quietly and starts off in a different direction.  
  
“I won't get anything done with you hanging over my shoulder,” Nori is saying as Ren slips into another aisle.  
  
“Two minds are better than one, my lady.”  
  
“Two _whole_ minds, anyway.”  
  
How are they not married yet? It's a mystery, Ren decides, and then sets about dealing with the business of finding the pencils Nori needs. There's a gigantic section of colored pencils from Germany that hadn't been here when Ren had accompanied Nori the other time she'd needed supplies. She walks along the neatly-arranged rows, making sure to not disturb any of them or upset the order they're in—she can't hear many other customers in here, so she can take her time looking these over. Maybe she'll run into the sketching pencils if she snoops around here for a few moments.  
  
The smells in the shop are comforting, if not all too natural. Wood, oil, canvas, linen—some charcoal. The dry Chinese ink-blocks they sell have a distinct scent as well, and each of these objects on display are used to create. She loves seeing Nori draw. There's nothing better than watching something come out of _nothing._ Even the void has beauty to offer, if you know what to do with it—even what seems useless could be great. It's a childish thought, probably, but it has its merit, Ren thinks. She drifts about like that for a few minutes more, until she spots a tiny section at the very end of the aisle with a small dark sign above it reading _FABER CASTELL_ in sharp, printed letters.  
  
She comes to stand before the selection of pencils available, and it takes her two seconds to spot what she needs. Someone shuffles behind her into the aisle as she grabs a generous handful of five each—Nori could always order her to return them if there were too many—and turns around, only to bump shoulders rather roughly with the person walking by. She'd gotten excited and miscalculated where they were. Silly, but she doesn't lose her grip on the pencils, and the one she ran into doesn't seem to have misplaced anything either. Ren's ready to apologize when they speak instead.  
  
“Ah, sorry—clumsy me...”  
  
The reaction her body has to that single sentence is visceral. Instinctual.  
  
A chill shoots up from the base of her legs to her back, her shoulders, and creeps down into her stomach, freezing everything in its way. The hair on her neck stands on end, prickling at the collar of her shirt, and her heart gives a great _thump_ , like the strike of a hammer against an anvil. _Thump, thump_ .  
  
She purses her lips, even as sourness floods her mouth. Uta hasn't changed much—his hair is longer, and that's about it, really. He's wearing a pair of bronze aviators today, and a combination of saggy shirt and sweatpants that she recognizes. She'd slept in that shirt once—hugged it as she drifted off into dreams, happy to be encircled by items that belonged to him, smelled like him, reminded her of him. He's not looking at her—he's focused on the materials in his hands, his favorite thin lining pens, so she's spared from the vigilant attention of his kakugan. She can't see them, hidden as they are by the sunglasses, but she knows they're activated. They always are. He's so lovely still. It makes her heart ache.  
  
Did he plan this? Perhaps that's ascribing him too much foresight and knowledge. She doesn't want to stay and find out, so she swivels on her heel and begins marching away. With any luck, he won't notice—  
  
“Ren...?”  
  
She freezes before she can stop it. But she doesn't look back. Ren has her flaws. She is not a good person, and she's accepted that. She's done many things wrong—maybe more than many, and she's learned that looking back never helps. So she forces her legs to comply and keeps walking, even as the bag Uta's holding rustles because he's—no doubt—moving toward her.  
  
“Ren, wait.”  
  
_Keep walking_ , she repeats to herself, and that's what she does. She stalks right back to the front of the store, finds Nori and Shuu, hands them the pencils, smiles when she's asked where she found them, shrugs off Nori's question about looking tense, and manages to appear nothing but calm and composed while they wait for the very slow cashier to check out the stuff they've gathered. And all the while, she waits—doesn't look, but waits to see if he'll follow her.  
  
He doesn't.

 


	11. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something happy and shippy (aside from the intro anyway)?? BLASPHEMY. enjoy the fluff uvu

 

I'VE LEARNED THAT NO MATTER HOW BAD YOUR HEART IS BROKEN  
THE WORLD DOESN'T STOP FOR YOUR GRIEF.

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

_Can you drown in booze?_

_Truth be told, she's willing to find out. More than she's ever been before. So far, it hasn't been working, beyond forgetting about things for a few hours at a time—and that's just not satisfactory. She's aiming for a completely blank slate, for a total fucking void. She doesn't want anything to fill her head. No clamoring thoughts. No screaming guilt, no repetitious judgments, no fictional, hypothetical scenarios she'll never be able to enact or take part in. There's too much everything on the inside, not enough of the nothing, of the famous barren, numb space people talk about when they recount bereavement._

_She sees Suzume in her sleep—if she_ does _sleep at all—every night. And it's never anything bloody. That may be the worst. It's just... mundane things. Stupid things. Perfect, ordinary, meaningless things that didn't seem to matter much before, like watching Suzume fold those silly paper cranes, or listening to her hum while she did her homework, having to move out of the way because she was running around the house watering down the plants with a spray bottle. She always left one of her slippers upturned when she was in a hurry, and liked sleeping under no less than three blankets. Nori had to wonder how she could breathe at all._

_Sometimes the dreams are a still-life, a flawless patchwork of a preserved memory, all sunlight, full of silly details Nori doesn't remember internalizing, and she can't move, only observe, but it's okay—because it means looking at Suz's face, even though she's starting to forget its particulars in her waking life._

_And then, sometimes, again, she's standing next to Suzume in an empty room, and she can hear the rustle of paper cranes being folded, though they're nowhere in sight, and the floor below them is a gaping abyss, lightless, a place that Nori knows in her heart has no end—if she falls, there's no coming back. Suz stops and turns to her, blinking at her, slow and methodical, and Nori tries to tell her everything she didn't have the time to, everything she was too frightened to admit, but Suzume has taken away her voice. She can't speak, and while she flounders, Suzume talks instead, her face sad and pale and sunken._

“ _I hate you,” she says, and her expression becomes the one Nori last saw on her, on that day. But she doesn't shout. It's just a small, quiet declaration, a tiny sharp truth, and it cuts Nori's heart to ribbons. “I hate you.”_

_Suzume says it once more. The invisible force holding Nori up ceases to exist, and she plummets down into the darkness and the rot, hurtling away from the face of her greatest failure._

_The gloom swallows her up—and she bolts awake._

_Her room is just as terrible and out of order as it was when she drifted off into a restless sleep. Her clothes from yesterday are still scattered over the edge of the bed, and everything is shit. Just like she remembered. She rolls over to the side, through the rumpled sheets, trampling on pillows with her body, and swipes at her glowing cellphone on the nightstand. Looking into the shining screen makes spots break across her vision, but she does it anyway. One missed call. Two texts. She goes for the texts first, squinting._

 

       → **SENT AT 4:05:03 PM, JUL 28TH (YESTERDAY)** _  
_ I HAVE A BAG OF THE BEST BEANS READY FOR YOU HERE. I KEPT IT WHEN WE WERE DEALING WITH THE SURPLUS—  
I KNOW JAVA IS YOUR FAVORITE. COME BY AND PICK IT UP WHEN YOU FEEL BETTER. OR I COULD DROP IT OFF AT  
YOUR PLACE SOMETIME, IF YOU WANT. EAT WELL AND DRINK LOTS OF WATER, OK? KEEP SAFE.

LOVE, REN. ♥

 

_Typical Ren. Always worrying about everyone but herself. It'll get her killed, one day. Or worse. The last person did that, there were no pieces left for Nori to pick up. No pieces, and no family. Second text. Next. Stop fucking moping, Nori._

 

       → **SENT AT 2:07:01 AM, JUL 29TH (TODAY)**

I FORGOT TO MENTION THAT I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR YOU. MR TSUKIYAMA STOPPED BY YESTERDAY  
AND SAID THAT HE'S GOT PLANS TO HELP YOUR BOREDOM. HE ALSO ASKED IF YOU PREFER THIGHS  
OR LEGS. I SAID I DIDN'T KNOW.

LOVE, REN ☺

 

_She should feel more touched that her best friend is checking in with the diligence of a well-trained dog, but Nori's never really been one to do what she should. The second message-in-a-message is so short and vague that it may as well have been some sort of encoded transmission, and it's from someone that, up until just a week ago, she considered just a step up from complete stranger. And—reading it inspires the first faint buzz of what could pass as excitement (or its near-dead, runty cousin) she's felt in what seems like forever._

  
_Plans, huh?_  
  
_He'd better be as good as his word._

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 _It's only in the weeks succeeding the night she spent over at his house that Shuu realizes just how much of herself she'd been holding back._  
  
_He'd gotten glimpses of it, in the instances where she spoke too much and then guarded herself again, defenses rising—he'd wanted her to be able to_ talk _to him, but talking doesn't seem to be high on this lovely lady's list of priorities. Nori speaks through her actions. If she wants you to know something, you will know it, sooner or later. Preferably sooner, and accompanied by some sort of force with which she can more accurately prove her point. He'd acquiesced to coffee—mostly because it'd give him the chance to see her, honestly, and she probably knows that as well as he does—and he'd been expecting_ coffee _, but he's not complaining about this either. And by 'this,' he means being pressed up against the kitchen counter (rather wantonly, he might add, though that doesn't detract from the situation in the least) with Nori busy getting rid of his slacks._  
  
_She'd brushed against him when she'd tugged them down over his hips, and he'd hissed._  
  
“ _Y-you don't have to,” he'd said, and she'd just regarded him with a look that would have made more sense being directed at him if he'd grown a second nose._  
  
“ _I never do anything I don't have to,” she'd replied simply. Then she'd yanked him toward her by the necktie for a kiss, her other hand dexterously freeing him of the last of his clothes (waist down, anyway)._  
  
_It's not like this is unfamiliar or new territory—it had been when they'd first gotten together, and despite his best efforts to conceal that much, she'd picked up on it right away—but Shuu has come to learn that it's different being with someone you like, someone you're attracted to, and being with someone you_ ache _for. It's an evolution: you don't want to see just that one part of them, but the entirety of who they are, and what you mean to them, how they'll show it. He loves living with the knowledge that she feels the same way. He loves watching her, whether she's hunched over a sketchbook or has just woken up, whether she's scowling or smiling, whether she's trying to dodge out of a hug or tracing her way down his torso with her lips._  
  
“ _What did I do to—ngh—deserve this?”_  
  
_She looks up at him for a moment, temporarily distracted. He's struck by how beautiful she is, standing there in her rumpled clothes, hair tousled around her shoulders, eyes gleaming, every inch of her his. “You've been busy, with the restaurant and stuff. Haven't seen you a lot lately.”_  
  
_That gives him a bit of courage. He props himself up on his elbows. “You mean to say you_ missed _me?”_  
  
_Nori raises a brow, and then her features twist into a very predatory smirk. “There's a limit to what you can do on your own.”_  
  
“ _Creativity is key in—ah...!”_  
  
_Her voice is muffled, but he hears her just fine. “You gonna talk for the duration?”_  
  
_He inhales sharply, once, when her mouth closes around him. “N-no.”_  
  
_She hums, something that might have been a laugh if she weren't, uh,_ preoccupied _, but that just makes it worse. Or better. Depending on your perspective. No, definitely better, he thinks, almost delirious. He's a sensitive man—in more ways than one—but she turns that sensitivity into sensations that border on madness. He hadn't known that being with someone could be like_ this _. It's starting to make sense: all the art, and the poetry, and the ridiculous, stupid things people do when they proclaim to be in love. He'd do anything for her. He can't remember why... why he thought focusing on work this week would be a good idea. He'll solve it later, when his focus isn't narrowed so very pleasantly on a single thing._  
  
_Dear God, he'll never go back to being alone again. He wouldn't give it up for the world. Shuu curls his fingers in her soft hair. Maybe he should let her..._  
  
“ _Nori.”_  
  
_That comes out as a breathless moan. Take two. He puts a hand on her shoulder._  
  
“ _Nori—I'm going to—”_  
  
_She takes the hint and backs off, though her expression doesn't say 'alright' as much as it does 'I didn't bite you, did I?'_  
  
_He can barely get the word out. “Bed?”_  
  
_She snorts and holds out a hand. “Didn't say that last time.”_  
  
“ _I didn't want to go slow last time,” he replies, and that's that._  
  
_They spend almost the whole afternoon that way, exploring each other, making up for a week of casual meetings, brushing by each other with nothing but a few moments to spare between them. She'd been busy—but the weekend's here, and he's staying over—he reaffirms that decision every other minute, more or less. He won't ever get enough of seeing her like this, this private side she shows to no one else—he's special,_ special _, for the first time in his life, someone is holding off for him, someone is waiting for him, someone treasures him, someone is_ missing him _. Shuu is not a stupid man—he may take pains to come off as one, because there are advantages in having everyone underestimate you, but it is a lonely place to be, and he has never done well with loneliness._  
  
_He has to stifle a groan against the crook of her neck at the end of it, and for a while he just lies there at her side, listening to her shallow breathing, feeling a very smug sense of accomplishment at being the reason for its rapid rhythm._  
  
“ _Wipe the shit-eating grin off your face,” Nori says, and he laughs, tasting the salt on her skin._  
  
“ _You can't even see me, my dear.”_  
  
_She tugs at his hair half-heartedly. “I don't have to.”_  
  
_She's so warm, and she fits into the curve of his body like she was made to be there. An outdated sentiment, perhaps, but he feels it to be true._  
  
“ _You'll have to wash the sheets,” he murmurs, tracing circles into her bare shoulder with a wandering finger. “We made a bit of a mess.”_  
  
“ _Don't we always?”_  
  
_He smiles, perhaps a bit sheepishly, and then leans over to kiss her brow. “It's more fun that way.”_  
  
_They doze off, his arms still around her—she's not very fond of staying close after being intimate, but she tolerates it from him, like she does with so many other things, and that may be more important to him than it would have been if she'd enjoyed it in the first place. Nori and compromises don't often go together, or rather at all, and that she's willing to embark on one for him... it's a feeling he's happy to say is just as wonderful as he'd always fantasized it'd be. He wakes up before her, watches her breathe for a few minutes, admiring the way the light coming through the mostly-drawn blinds compliments her, sets her hair aglow. He's still staring when her eyes flutter open._  
  
“ _What is it?” he asks at the sight of her smirking._  
  
“ _You've got lipstick_ all _over your face,” she reports in a voice husky from sleep, rather contentedly, too._  
  
“ _I'm sure it suits me,” Shuu says._  
  
_She chuckles. “Maybe.”_  
  
_Fifteen minutes later, he's sitting on the edge of the step inside her shower, tilting his head back at her instruction so she can massage the shampoo into his scalp. It's cool against his skin, and it smells like eucalyptus and peppermint, maybe jasmine—she despises anything that smells like berries, he remembers, so the array of meticulously-arranged bottles lined up by the wall have nothing of the sort in them. The warm spray of the water at his back is soft—Nori prefers to turn the pressure up, but she knows he's not much fond of what he calls 'the carwash approach.' She'd smacked him for that._  
  
_He sighs happily and closes his eyes when she scratches at his hairline lightly._  
  
“ _You're weird,” she says over the patter of the shower, but there's nothing insulting in her tone._  
  
“ _Hmm.”_  
  
“ _Yep,” she murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. “Totally weird.”_  
  
_When it's her turn to have her hair washed, he makes sure to be gentle, periodically sweeping his palm along her hairline in order to remain certain that no suds drip down into her eyes._  
  
“ _I'm not made of glass, Shuu,” she says, and still, after all this time, hearing her say his name makes his heart leap._  
  
“ _I do know,” he tells her, running his fingers down the length of her conditioned hair, combing out the snags as softly as possible. He bends, brushing his lips to her shoulder, even though that makes water crawl up his nose. “But I enjoy pampering you.”_  
  
_There's something exceedingly intimate about being this comfortable around another person—being able to stand with them in the shower without feeling self-conscious or anxious about anything else—he can see every inch of her beautiful inkwork, the roses curling and blooming along her arms, the scorpion with its raised tail on her hip. He rinses the conditioner out carefully, rubbing slow circles into the base of her neck with his thumbs, swiping the strands that stick to her cheeks out of her face._  
  
“ _Feels good?” he asks, and she makes a noncommittal sound of agreement._  
  
_When he's almost done she lets her head loll back far enough for the crown of her skull to meet the center of his chest. His hands cup her face, reverent. He's mesmerized by the movement of the water droplets tracking down her jaw. They watch each other for a bit, until he smiles at her and moves in to press his lips to hers._  
  
“ _Spiderman kiss,” she mumbles against his mouth. “Nerd.”_

_He agrees.“Anything for you.”_

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

Nori usually doesn't make a habit of checking who's at the door before opening it, though, in highsight, she probably should have tonight. She doesn't have many visitors—there's a limit to how many people can make it to her apartment, and only one of them was scheduled to show up this evening, so she'd assumed it was _him_ when she yanked the door aside. But because luck likes laughing at her (apparently), it hadn't been.  
  
Instead, she has to suffer through almost ten seconds of standing there in front of her best friend in a rather revealing piece of dark lingerie (wow, could she not have fetched the robe before she answered the door?), blinking stupidly as Ren holds out a bundled jacket. At least one of them's not disturbed—or embarrassed. The generally low-light of the apartment behind her must help. It's a good thing ghouls don't have exquisite night vision, because that might have warranted her having to actually _move_ and go cover herself up. It's kind of strange, feeling awkward, because Nori isn't in the business of feeling awkward: she knows her body's amazing, she doesn't mind showing it off, and doesn't shy away from wearing things that flatter her and it. Maybe it's the fact that she's so invested in her relationship that she'd go as far as to dress up—or _down_ , depending on how you look at it—being on display that's the embarrassing part. That's probably it.  
  
“Hello,” Ren greets, very cordially, at the same time Nori blurts, “You're not Shuu.”  
  
Another pause, this time shorter than before.  
  
“No,” Ren says. “I am not.”  
  
Nori swallows, taps her long nails against the wall by the jamb. “So—what did you want?”  
  
“I thought I should bring back your jacket,” Ren remarks, wiggling the aforementioned article of clothing at her. “You left it behind yesterday and I didn't want you to lose it.”  
  
She takes the jacket with her free hand, tucks it under her arm, tries not to... edge behind the door. “Oh, thanks. Uh...”  
  
Ren cocks her head to the side, just a tiny bit, and her eyes skirt over Nori's choice of outfit. “You look very lovely. You should definitely wear red more often.”  
  
Heat floods into Nori's cheeks. She pointedly fixes her gaze on the ceiling. “Thanks,” she says stiffly for the second time in as many seconds.  
  
“You may need to wash that,” Ren continues, unabashed. “Purin slept on it. I wouldn't want your allergies to come back.”  
  
“I'll do that,” Nori assures her. “Did you want anything else?”  
  
“No,” Ren admits. Her gaze drifts downward again. “You even changed out the piercings for him! How sweet.”  
  
“Alright, this is getting weird,” Nori says, like it wasn't that before. “Can you— _go_ now?”  
  
Ren smiles. “Of course.” She darts in, really quick, leaves a friendly peck on Nori's cheek. “Have fun. Don't put your back out, please.”  
  
“ _Ren!_ ”  
  
She just winks and ducks away, still smiling.  
  
“Fuck you!”  
  
Ren's only reply is a waving hand, signaling she heard.  
  
“And don't wink, it's _creepy_!”

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 _Nori never thought she'd actively care about anyone else's opinion on her—she hasn't worked that way, not from day one. But here she is, sitting on the exquisite fabric of the largest sofa the Tsukiyama manor has to offer, in an atmospheric dining room complete with a fireplace and candlelight, waiting for dinner to be served—and the tremble in her hands hasn't died down quite yet._  
  
“ _Don't worry too much,” Shuu had said when the butler—the tall grim-faced lady known as Matsumae—had ushered them into the house. “I'm sure he'll love you.”_  
  
“ _Yeah,” she'd murmured, absolutely_ not _sure._

 _She's even forgone her usual dark lipstick, switched it out for a peachy beige. Made sure to wear something without_ too _many holes in it. None, if she could help it. At least, none that are obviously visible. If Shuu were surprised by the change, he hadn't made a comment. He's standing by the mantelpiece, swirling a glass of what looks like wine, catching up with the twitchy kid. Kanae's the name, she thinks, but she can't be assed to remember properly—she has more things to worry about right now. Like impressing Shuu's father. His_ father _. Oh, God, he's actually brought her here to meet family. He's serious about her. She knew that, logically, but... goddamn. How did she get into this position?_  
  
_She has no time to contemplate it, because the biggest set of doors along the west side of the room are flung open._  
  
“ _Shuu? I heard my darling son has come to visit me!”_  
  
“ _Papa!”_  
  
“ _Shuu! It_ is _you!”_  
  
_A lanky man in an offensively bright suit is hugging Shuu now, his arms around her boyfriend's back. He's pale, with a pronounced widow's peak, hair as purple as Shuu's—she supposes it runs in the family. His tiny spectacles gleam in the firelight as he takes a step back, hands on Shuu's shoulders: he has a high brow, an inquisitive face, and a bushy mustache with clean-cut edges. He's so well-groomed he may as well be sparkling. And he's looking right at her. She jumps to her feet more out of instinct than anything else, wincing a little when her heavy shoes thud loudly on the exquisite parquet floor._  
  
“ _Papa,” Shuu says as he turns, one hand still on his father's back, “this is the lovely lady I've been telling to you about.”_  
  
_The taller Tsukiyama squints at her, like he's looking for something. “Why—I didn't know you had it in you, son. You said she was beautiful, but... the photos truly do her no justice!”_  
  
Photos? ... _She's not going to ask._  
  
_She makes her way to them. Her legs don't lock up, so that's good. She has to crane her head upward to look at them both. Fuck being short, goddamn._  
  
“ _Mirumo Tsukiyama,” the older ghoul introduces himself, and takes the hand she offers for a shake—to... press a kiss to. It's light, just over the knuckles, and utterly polite. The skin of his palms is smooth and warm. “_ Enchantée, mademoiselle _.”_  
  
Definitely _runs in the family._  
  
“ _Nori,” she says shortly, and then remembers you generally give both your first and last name when talking to others. She hasn't done it in so long that she—oh, God, she's already fucking up. “Kimura, that is. Nori Kimura.” Smooth save._  
  
“ _A wonderful name for a wonderful woman,” Mirumo compliments, bowing a tad when he lets her hand slip away. “My son has scarcely talked about anything else since you came along. I am aware of the basics, but I must know who it is that's taking up my precious Shuu's time so!”_  
  
_Is that the beginning of a cold sweat gathering on her neck? She hopes not._  
  
“ _She won't disappoint, Papa,” Shuu says, effectively saving her from having to make any sort of response. “Why don't you two seat yourselves? I will go with Kanae to check on how Chef is doing.”_  
  
_Mirumo claps his hands together so abruptly it makes even Nori jump. “Splendid, splendid! Sharp as ever, my Shuu.”_  
  
Don't abandon me, you fuckwit! _she thinks desperately at Shuu's back—can telepathy be a thing now? Is that possible? Because she'd really like for it to be._  
  
_They watch Shuu disappear through the doors that lead into a hallway. Kanae follows quietly after him, and Matsumae shuts the doors behind them. Great. Effectively alone with... Nori tries not to think about it. She gulps—not too obviously, she hopes—and turns just as Mirumo extends a hand, palm-up. The glinting, reflective surface of his spectacles might unsettle her more than she'd like to admit. She places just the tips of her fingers into his waiting hand (please don't let me shake too hard), and allows him to guide her to the waiting dining table. It's preposterously long, set with all manner of exquisite things—inlaid plates, crystal wineglasses, spotless silverware, and an utterly immaculate tablecloth._  
  
_Shuu's family really is fucking_ loaded _. She knew that before, of course, but sometimes, after a while of being tenuously absent, the realization kind of rolls into her space of awareness and decks her in the face. Her folks aren't too bad off, either; lack of money is something she's never suffered from, but even the Kimuras can't say they have three different manors in the same city and a seemingly endless staff of blindly loyal personnel dedicated to waiting on her hand and foot for the rest of her life. Also, no limos. And if there had been any in her life, she'd have made sure they weren't the purple of the cars she'd seen outside. She has_ some _sympathy for strangers' eyeballs._  
  
_Mirumo pulls out the seat that she guesses is hers with consummate grace, and after gesticulating to it, she sinks into it. The carved wood of the chair's tall back digs into her spine. Well, pain means she's alive. For now. The elder Tsukiyama takes his seat at the head of the table, and the light of the fireplace shining out from behind him makes him look all the more intimidating. Is this what it feels like to depend on the opinions of others? As in, for normal, lesser mortals? Thank the fucking Lord she doesn't care what anyone else says—or, at least, she doesn't care what anyone else_ except _Older, Taller Shuu has to say. His approval... would be sort of nice to have. What an alien thought._  
  
“ _I'm not going to eat you, my dear,” he says, and she very nearly jerks back in surprise. Is her discomfort that easy to pick up on?_ That _must have showed on her face, too, because he chuckles, lacing his fingers together and leaning his chin against them. “I'm only curious. It's not often something holds Shuu's interest for a_ long _time. But, you likely already know this. You seem to be a perceptive girl. My son is not the most difficult of people to read, is he?”_  
  
_He's talking about something exceedingly important, and yet all she can think about—if this, whatever it is, continues, and she and Shuu really do become A Thing, Forever, she is under no circumstances going to let him grow out a mustache. Hell, under pain of death. She should probably reply. Put words together, Nori, she tells herself. You can do that. Easy. Easy..._  
  
“ _He's good at holding on,” she says suddenly. And then the less-savory implications of those five words crash into her. She can practically picture the proverbial anvil crushing her head._  
  
_Mirumo only laughs, surprising her. “That he is. He's such a loving boy, always ready to give his all! It made watching him grow something of a challenge. Being a parent is not for the faint of heart, Miss Kimura. You continually watch the single priceless, beloved thing in your life teeter on the edge of disaster. Heartbreak, failed friendships, the fear of discovery, even small hurts like falling ill or being ignored—these are trials you cannot protect any child from.”_  
  
_She wets her mouth. “I'll keep that in mind,” she rasps, but it's more of a appeasing platitude than anything else. She's not planning on being a parent any time soon. Not now—or in the next eighty goddamn years._  
  
_Perhaps he picked up on the intent behind that sentence. He smiles, just a quirk of the thin lips under his mustache, expression knowing. She hates it when older people do that. “Shuu is my only son, and as such, he is very dear to me. I do not wish to see him distressed. Forgive me for my plainness, Miss Kimura—but he is simply smitten with you. My Shuu... he does not have luck with friends, or in matters of the heart. For all his wit and wariness, he is still too trusting. And with you, he is radiant. It is all a father wishes for, when he pictures his child's ideal future.”_  
  
_She'd been expecting some sort of degrading, interrogatory tirade. Instead, heat is building in her chest. Her palms are sweating lightly—nervousness, obviously—and way back in her head, somewhere behind her eyeballs, a telltale sting is gathering. She's not into waterproof mascara, so she'll have to be careful._  
  
“ _I...” she starts, and then finds, for once, she has no smart answer. “He is... really special.”_  
  
_Mirumo gives her that knowing smile again. “It's about time someone other than our family recognized it. There's always been a bit of a glass wall around my boy, even in the company of other ghouls—he reminds me too much of myself, sometimes. I am glad he's found a person he can share himself with.”_  
  
_Something tells her that this is the most serious she'll ever see Shuu's father. She has no objections. Serious makes her overthink things, and overthinking things involves_ emotion. _She should probably bullshit her way out of this. She probably_ could _. But she feels like she owes Mirumo more than that. Some honesty._  
  
“ _Relationships aren't my thing,” Nori says, regrets it a bit once the words have left her mouth. “With—him... it feels different. I'll—I'm doing my best. It's been really good. Better than good.”_  
  
_Wow, she hasn't confessed anything that distinctly not-pussyfooted out loud in a very long time. She's not going to get into the habit of doing it, either._  
  
“ _I can see what he meant when he described you as endearing,” Mirumo remarks, very offhandedly, as though discussing the weather, and her cheeks instantly heat. 'Endearing?' She's going to beat Shuu's ass for that one later. “Do not give yourself gallstones on my account, my dear. My candor comes with age. I was much like you, when I was younger. You'll care less as the years go on.”_  
  
“ _Sounds great,” she drawls before she can stop herself. She can't imagine this flamboyant man as anything but exhaustingly exuberant._  
  
“ _Just so,” Mirumo agrees cheerily. “Thank you, Miss. I entrust Shuu to your care.”_  
  
_Mirumo's Japanese is so proper and educated, crisply enunciated, almost bordering on keigo. If old money had a sound, it'd be his voice. She can talk the same talk—she has the know-how, but it's not a kind of speech she's gravitated toward. This is the first time in her life she's ever thought it didn't sound so bad or terribly overstuffed with self-importance._  
  
_A proper lady would most likely respond with,_ it is I who thanks you _, but proper isn't her thing, and Mirumo doesn't seem to mind._  
  
“ _Shuu says you work in the art industry,” Mirumo continues._  
  
“ _Uh,” she lets out, rather stupidly, and then recovers. “I... do.” May as well get out at once. Let it all hang. Go commando. Grab the bull by the fucking horns. “I'm a tattoo artist.”_  
  
_She waits for impact. She knows lots of stuff about Proper Japanese Society (mostly that they're all prigs and deserve to drown in vats of hot ink), and none of them involve a favorable reaction to her choice of profession._  
  
“ _How marvelous!” Mirumo exclaims, full of what she's come to recognize as trademark Tsukiyama enthusiasm, and the bottom of her stomach drops away in relief. “I've heard it is a most trying form of self-expression. You must show me your portfolio sometime, my dear. There is nothing better nor more admirable than faith in an artistic cause. Do you have a shop?”_  
  
“ _Yes,” she hears herself answering._  
  
“ _That seals it. I will make sure to visit. We shall exchange details after dinner!”_  
  
“ _Sure,” Nori murmurs, and is steeling herself for the next question when she hears a mercifully familiar voice._  
  
“ _Everything seems to be in place,” Shuu announces as he—with unnecessary dramatic flair—pushes the doors open. “Dinner is served!”_  
  
“ _Thank God,” she sighs under her breath. Shuu comes to sit nearest to her, unabashedly placing his hand on her shoulder. “About time.”_  
  
“ _I'm sure you survived,” he says with a chuckle, and after a second of additional thought, kisses her cheek lightly. “I wouldn't have left you if I didn't know he'd love you.”_  
  
“ _That's—just shut up,” she splutters._  
  
“ _You didn't frighten her too badly, I hope?” Shuu asks Mirumo._  
  
“ _I doubt I could,” Mirumo says. “Ah, there's our food.”_  
  
_Nori guesses she should probably not mention that he was utterly wrong._

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

He barely has enough time to understand what happens between knocking on the door to Nori's apartment—it takes her less than two seconds to answer—and being pulled into said apartment by grace of his necktie. He only gets a momentary glimpse before Nori stands on her tiptoes to cover his mouth with hers. She tastes like alcohol and cigarettes, and it's the best thing he's felt all day.  
  
“Were you waiting for me?” he asks when she lets him breathe for a moment. His gaze lingers on her, and heat floods through him at the sight of what she's wearing. It's been almost three years since the day he met her, and the effect she has on him is no less than it used to be—it might be, in fact, more. They've built something together, something that continues to surprise him and delight him. If he loved her before, he adores her now. He wonders if he can say that all in a single glance. He must try.  
  
“Maybe,” she replies. She pries the necktie free from the collar of his shirt with deft fingers and flings it away, then stops to smirk at the admiring look on his face.  
  
“You...” he starts, and then licks his lips. “You should wear red more often.”  
  
She gives what sounds like an exasperated huff. “Not you too.”  
  
He blinks, confused, as her arms wind around his neck. “Me _too_ ? What do you—mph!”  
  
They stumble toward the center of the room, locked together, halting for just a second so she can pop the top buttons of his shirt open. He slips a strap of the _lovely_ garment she chose to put on tonight over her shoulder, rubbing his thumb on the smooth skin there. She shivers, pulls him into another kiss, and the world spins around again, but he has to tell her—before he gets too carried away.  
  
“I can't,” he says at last, pulling away.  
  
“What? What's wrong?”  
  
“I can't,” he repeats, and then purses his lips. “Not while _that thing_ is watching.”  
  
Nori's mouth hangs open, like the response she'd planned to give just went on out and left without notice. Then she finally looks back at the lizard on the couch, who is, yes, indeed, watching them, with two very observant glassy eyes, barely visible except for the sheen of the muted TV's light on his scales.  
  
“...Are you serious?”  
  
Shuu sniffs. “I am perfectly serious. Some events should not have audiences.”  
  
“I would have taken you for the voyeur type,” Nori says. “It's just Kaiju, Shuu. He won't do anything.”  
  
“Which is precisely the problem,” he insists. “He's just— _there_ . Breathing. Smugly.”  
  
“Living things do tend to breathe, yes,” she says, running her nails lightly over his collarbone, smiling at the goosebumps that action leaves in its wake. “Show him who's boss, then.”  
  
“Not out here,” Shuu says with a laugh. “And no amount of appealing to my competitive side will convince me, _mon rose_ .”  
  
She heaves a sigh. “Damn.”  
  
He tugs her in the direction of the bedroom by virtue of their joined hands. “And we're closing the door.”  
  
Another sigh. “ _And_ we're closing the door, fine. Let's go already.”  
  
“ _Tr_ _é_ _s bon.”_  
  
“Are you really making faces at the lizard? _Really_ ?”  
  
“Shh, no talking.”

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 _Most nights she takes off like a bat out of hell._  
  
_Lingering afterward is too awkward, gives her too much room to think—or, heaven forbid, strike up conversation. She doesn't know why it's any different with him. She hasn't had a problem being everything but personal with everyone else, but being near him for too long makes her slip up. It's nothing, she tells herself as she takes a pointedly long drag from her cigarette. The smell of menthol floods her nostrils, calming her. Always does the trick. Well, almost always. Smoking naked is oddly relaxing._  
  
_He's more or less dozing off, right there to her left, splayed across the expanse of the bed available to him. What a trusting idiot—falling asleep in the presence of a near-total stranger. That would usually inspire contempt. Scarily enough, she finds it... endearing. Maybe it's hormones. She's due in a few days. Yeah. Hormones._  
  
“ _I was your first, wasn't I?”_  
  
_Shuu goes rigid (definitely awake now), and Nori congratulates herself on her utter lack of tact. What ever had happened to not wanting to strike up conversation?_  
  
“ _Ah... you noticed...”_  
  
_She laughs despite herself, sending smoke spinning. “Kind of difficult not to.”_  
  
_He makes a noise that kind of sounds like confirmation of embarrassment, and turns on his side to bury his face in the pillow he's lying on. “I apologize—if...”_  
  
“ _No worries,” Nori says, cutting him off. “You're a fast learner.” She might have stayed even if he weren't, but that's not on her list of things to say aloud._  
  
_He freezes again, and she can see the delicious line of his spine straightening. “Oh. I see. I—I'm glad.”_  
  
“ _If it helps any, I wouldn't have known before we...” she murmurs while gesturing to the general vicinity around them: tangled sheets, clothes peppering the floor, dented mattress, barely any light in the room._  
  
_Shuu glances at her, just for a moment. “You... truly mean that?”_  
  
_She avoids his expectant gaze, instead focusing on the ceiling. Puff in and out, Nori. Smoke. “I figured you were—_ really _popular. I mean, just from looking at you.”_  
  
_He turns to face her, smiling, and the heat of his body seeps across the tiny space between them to settle at her hip. She wants to touch him. “No one's ever said that to me before. Popularity wasn't—my forte.”_  
  
“ _Could've fooled me,” she mumbles around the cig in her mouth. For whatever reason, that makes his dorky smile get wider. She should point out the obvious more often._  
  
_There's a pause. He reaches up and carefully—so gently it makes her ache—brushes the loose hair on her shoulder aside. It's intimate. Too intimate. But she allows it. “Thank you.”_  
  
_She scoffs. “For what? Didn't do anything.”_  
  
_He looks at her for one last time before laying back down again. “You might think so.”_  
  
_She doesn't ask what he means by that. She may like the answer too much._

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

Locking up INC isn't too difficult a job, which is why she does it on her own.  
  
It's the end of another day. She used to detest the monotony, do stupid shit to break it up—highly inadvisable shit. But, then again, 'highly inadvisable' may as well be her own personal warning label. She still dislikes the boredom of routine, probably always will.  
  
That won't ever change in its entirety. What _has_ changed, however, is her endurance for inactivity. Dad used to go on and on about the pleasures of mundane life—she's never going to be able to enjoy a newspaper or a slow day at the office the way he does, but she's starting to think he was onto something. There's comfort in knowing, in whatever small capacity, what lies ahead. She looks forward to seeing Shuu, whenever she can. She doesn't have to agonize about Ren's whereabouts—said goof is upstairs, most of the time. Right now, she's lounging on the couch in the waiting area by the front desk, long legs akimbo, zoned out as usual. Nori has no idea how she can sit still for so long.  
  
“Hey, knucklehead.”  
  
Ren opens one unfairly large eye in response, staring at her with eerie awareness. “Hm?”  
  
“I'm done here. Gonna go catch a quick shower. Wanna get started on our rewatch after, or nah?”  
  
“Sure,” Ren says.  
  
Nori nods and fishes her keys out of her jacket pocket. “Cool. Wait for me upstairs?”  
  
“I will.”  
  
It takes about half a minute for Nori to sigh and turn around to face Ren fully. “Okay, what is it?”  
  
Ren does that funny head-quirk thing, expression puzzled. “What is what?”  
  
“You're _looking_ at me with your googly cow eyes like you're waiting for me to explode or something,” Nori clarifies, resting a hand on her hip. “Spit it out, already.”  
  
Ren laughs. “Happy,” she says at last.  
  
“Happy...?”  
  
“You,” Ren continues. “You seem happy. It's nice.”  
  
Out of all the things she expected Ren to say—that was not one of them. Not even close, and hardly anything Ren says surprises her anymore. You get desensitized after nigh on four years of non sequiturs, random scientific trivia, and stream of consciousness rambling.  
  
“I... do?”  
  
Ren nods. “Yes.”  
  
And then Nori surprises _herself,_ because she looks down at the key-ring in her palm, at the beautiful rose-shaped charm a certain someone had insisted she accept, and says, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

 


	12. Seesaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is there such a genre as gore fluff? fluff gore? ...gluff? FORE?? if there is, i'm writing for it.

 

I'VE LEARNED THAT TWO PEOPLE CAN LOOK AT THE EXACT  
SAME THING AND SEE SOMETHING TOTALLY DIFFERENT.

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

The rain is soaking through her coat, plastering her hair to her skull.  
   
It is cold, or it should be, but she doesn't truly feel it. Soft music drifts from the speakers of the nearby café, through its open doors, though the thrum of the strings is drowned out by the buzz of activity on the street. The paramedics are like a solid white mass of blank canvas, different from the watery, blurred world around them, the only thing in clear definition for as far as the eye can see. Ren can hear the squeak of their layered latex gloves if she focuses enough—she listens as the shorter one on the left, the lady with the pockmark on her forehead, tells a man in tall boots to stand back.  
   
Ren watches as they lift what's left of the woman who had been in the car onto the stretcher. The jurisdictional law passed in 1948 prohibits paramedics from performing any medical procedure other than simple resuscitation. _I wonder if she'll die._  
   
It's diluting already—the blood on the asphalt. Less work for the cleaners later, she supposes. The crowd swarms around the open wound of the accident site, mumbling, quiet, not quite subtle in their attentions. There's something rather perfect about the way they're arranged, and the shock of the paramedics' white uniforms is like a burst of light, a spot of emptiness. She's fishing for her cellphone before she realizes what she's doing, and then blinks the drops of rain out of her eyes slowly as she flips on the camera function. _Click._ The viewfinder targets what looks most like faces to its impersonal search—she has to tilt her hand a little bit to the left to get the alignment where she wants it to be. _Click_ two.  
   
She lowers her arm, observing the still image on her phone's monitor. It looks good. A gob of water is magnifying the red cross on one paramedic's armband. She wipes it away with her thumb. Ren is still standing there when the ambulance drives away, staring down at the glossy screen facing her. It takes two swipes and one tap to navigate to her contacts page. Technically, she doesn't need the page at all. Every number she's ever read are up there, in her head, floating around like clouds of thought waiting to be caught and used. But it gratifies her, to see their names, here on her phone, something so personal and normal, so private and special. They're her friends. There's only two of them, but they're hers, and they're enough.  
   
The first says “NORI ♥”—a near-obnoxious declaration of affection, just like Ren likes it. The second used to read “Tsukiyama,” formal and polite, but that changed a while ago, to “Shuu.” He'd insisted.  
   
The phone rings exactly two times before Nori picks up.  
   
“Yo,” Nori greets. “What's up?”  
   
“Just sightseeing,” Ren says. A family of three walks by her. The daughter looks at her strangely.  
   
“What's there to see in a city you've lived in for years? Uptight assholes?”  
   
“Something like that,” she agrees. “I was wondering—I'm getting hungry. Do you think we can get a bite to eat tonight?”  
   
Nori's grin is practically audible in the tone of her voice. “I'm free. Where do you want to go?”  
   
Ren shrugs before she remembers that Nori can't see it. “I'll let you decide. You have better taste.”  
   
“I do, don't I?” is Nori's smug reply. It just makes Ren smile. “It'll be a surprise, then.”  
   
“Good,” Ren says, now happy. There's a lull in the conversation, a small pause.  
   
“Are you standing out in the rain?” Nori asks. “Do you have an umbrella on you, at least?”  
   
She laughs a little. “I'll be going, then.”  
   
“That's _not_ what I—Ren!”  
   
“See you tonight.”

 

 

…

 

 

In another life, it'd have been Uta's apartment she'd have been sitting in for this occasion.  
   
As it turns out, things can change. They can change very fast in very little time. Nori thought she'd learned that when Suz died—but apparently, this is a lesson that God, or Saint Nicholas, or her hairy fairy godmother wanted her to internalize more than the others. Repetition, it seems, is just what the powers that be decided she needed. And boy, did she get it. There's an admittedly sort of funny irony to the way everything has worked out—or _hasn't_ , depending on who you ask. She's not really sure which answer she'd give if _she_ were asked. She hasn't lost Ren as well, which she supposes is something to be grateful for, even though she'd been convinced for a while that she'd seen the last of her best friend only a few months ago.  
   
She didn't know how icy relief could feel, like being plunged into a freezing shower up until your fucking eyeballs with no prior warning. That's how it'd been when she'd opened the door to INC and Ren had been standing there, looking a little worse for wear but acting as though she'd only skipped out a few minutes ago. Ren hasn't apologized for it again. That might be a good thing. It probably is. There's something strange about listening to Ren apologize—she's apologized enough for all sorts of situations she couldn't help. Nori would have preferred she'd stayed, said anything before she took off, but she knows better than anyone that Ren is stubborn, even though it doesn't show. Nori couldn't have convinced her to stay any more than she could have convinced Nori that Shuu was beyond help.  
   
Quitting is an action neither of them are familiar with.  
   
“Are you ready?” Ren asks, snapping out of her train of thought. Her eyes narrow warily.  
   
“For what?”  
   
“Your present,” her friend says breezily. “I made you one.”  
   
“Ren—”  
   
“Shh,” Ren interrupts, waving a hand. “I wanted to.”  
   
“Don't you _shh_ me,” Nori protests. No one other than Ren would have ever survived doing that, that's for sure. “What—”  
   
Before she can finish her sentence, Ren has pulled what looks like an album out from a box hidden underneath the couch she's sitting on. It's been almost a month since Nori went to Uta's apartment to retrieve Ren's belongings, and the apartment above INC has adopted a distinctly Ren sense of decoration and space. The place is airy, the furniture arranged around the light and ambiance the windows provide. Purin's towering cage—wee shit has a lot of effort put into him, Nori thinks—is sitting by one of them. He's basking in the sunlight now, his dark eyes creased into happy little crescents, feathers ruffled, crest relaxed.  
   
“Open it,” Ren instructs her, after plopping the album in her lap.  
   
Nori does, even if it's just a bit cautiously—the pictures inside are all neatly arranged, edge-to-edge, borders aligned, printed on glossy paper, in all varieties of colors: a fiery sunrise over Shibuya ward, drops of dew caught on the petals of a dusky red rose, the glow of fluorescent signs over the stores downtown at night, the mingled blurs and lights of the sea of crowds on the sidewalk during the morning rush; there are dozens and dozens of them in here, these photographs, taken with care. On the upper right-hand corner of the next page she sees a wonderful row of hydrangeas, the pink and blue of the different bouquets bleeding into one another, and below it, the black silhouette of someone—man or woman, she can't tell—taking a cigarette break outside a coffee store. And there are more, a lot more.  
   
She doesn't know why this feels like the most thoughtful thing anyone's ever got her. Nori thumbs one of the pages back, ever so careful. “How did you get these?”  
   
“How...?”  
   
“I mean, with what,” Nori clarifies, eyes still glued to the album.  
   
“Oh,” Ren says, and then coughs. “With—with my mobile phone.”  
   
“You did... all of this—with your _phone_ ?”  
   
Ren shuffles her feet, apparently oblivious to Nori's surprise. “It's not much, since I am not in the best financial situation, and I wanted to do something for you on my own and not rely on anyone else... but seeing as you provided me with the mobile in the first place, I suppose I have failed.” She sighs. “I like taking photos. I collected everything that reminded me of you.”  
   
Nori brushes a hand over a bright, saturated picture of a neon-blue fish. Ren must have gone to the aquarium for that one. “These are... they're great. You've really got an eye for this, you know?”  
   
That single statement makes Ren light up like a six-foot Christmas tree. “You—you think so?”  
   
“I wouldn't mention it if I didn't,” Nori mumbles, looking down at the album. “You need a camera...”  
   
Ren purses her lips. “Happy birthday.”  
   
“Did you hear what I said? A cam—”  
   
“It is _your_ birthday,” Ren says pointedly. “I won't have you talking about—getting things for me.”  
   
“So it'd be fine if it were tomorrow?”  
   
“Nori...”  
   
“At least you're not trying to _stop_ me,” Nori says, flipping another page.  
   
“Yes, because I've learned that arguing with you is futile. _Happy birthday_ .”  
   
“I heard you the first time, yeah.”  
   
They sit in relative silence as Nori leafs her way through the album, stopping to soak in the images. The last page has a single photo on it, square in the middle—Nori recognizes the sight of her workspace before anything else. The version of her in the photo is in her shop-clothes, what's left of her hair bunched up in a messy topknot, the straps of her sleeveless shirt slipping down over her small shoulders. She's bent over a sketch or something, but she's smiling, cheeks dimpling, and even to a person with no shortage of self-confidence, she's taken aback at seeing herself so... radiant. Is that really how she looks when she smiles?  
   
“When was this taken?” is the first thing she demands when her voice returns. Ren just grins.  
   
“When you weren't looking!”

 

 

…

 

 

She finds walking around after dark cathartic. The crowds at night are different.  
   
During the day, everyone bustles, like they can't get to whatever place they're going to fast enough. There's another kind of presence to people when the sun is gone—a quiet acknowledgment of presence that's not there in earlier hours. Sometimes, for just a moment while she's passing by another person, she catches the scent of something familiar, of ghoul, and she'll look at them for a split second, sharing a small instant of awareness. There are others out there: they look like a human's idea of perfect fathers and mothers, peaceful families and happy children; and all of them are alone, ants trying to be an army unto themselves. Did ghouls ever have a culture—an existence—outside of human life?  
   
Doctor Masami's voice answers her, inside the dark space of her head. “No,” it says. “Your kind have always been parasites. Hangers-on.”  
   
_You're dead,_ Ren thinks. _You're dead and I killed you_ .  
   
That makes it go away. It always does.  
   
She takes a left on the next street—a silent residential road stretches out before her, houses rising on either side, their perfectly square windows glowing with light from within. Homes... she wonders what kind of stories there are inside them. People with hopes and dreams, aspirations and goals. Would anyone in _that_ house turn her into the CCG, if they knew her better? Is anyone on this street a ghoul? Anything is possible, she tells herself. That thought used to scare her. Now, it's more of a comfort than a fear.  
   
Ren has just walked past a house with a wonderful pink doghouse in the yard when a voice rises up above the soft rustling of the hedges in the breeze.  
   
“How long are you going to pretend you don't know I'm here?”  
   
She doesn't look back, and doesn't stop. “I had hoped to keep it up until I'd made it home.”  
   
His footsteps change in pacing, come quicker, so he can catch up. They're near-noiseless and measured. He prefers boots and slipper-like shoes to anything else. He doesn't own a single pair of sneakers.  
   
“I thought you'd be silent the entire way,” Uta says.  
   
“I was going to be,” she replies shortly, not sparing him a glance when he begins walking beside her. He still can't keep up rather well without at least half-jogging—it's one of the advantages of having ridiculously long legs.  
   
He doesn't seem to know how to respond to that, so he pushes his sunglasses up with a knuckle before speaking again. “It's been months.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Will you come back?”  
   
“No.”  
   
He sighs. “I guessed as much.”  
   
“ You _were_ always very clever,” she sneers, and his almost-non-existent brows quirk upward in obvious surprise at the cutting edge of her tone.  
   
Two more steps until he sighs again.  
   
“What do you want?” she asks.  
   
“Why must I want something?”  
   
“Because it's what you do,” Ren says. “You're not here with charity in mind. Haven't I already offered everything I was able to offer?”  
   
The corners of his mouth turn downward. “You ran out on me in the store. You needed your space, and I gave it to you.”  
   
“I must apologize—I have no commendations to give you,” she replies. “I left them all at home, you see, along with all my other congratulatory tendencies.”  
   
“I only want to talk,” he says. He's almost jogging in an attempt to keep up with her strides.  
   
“What you did is beyond talking about. You're wasting your time.”  
   
That makes whatever expressiveness his face displays shrink and wither away—now there's only the composed, distant Uta, intent hidden behind the defenses she's come to know are there between him and everyone; between him and the world, between them both, even when she'd thought there were no secrets left to hide. Is lying something he grew into, or has this been the reality of him from the very beginning? She doesn't want to know. Not now. It wouldn't make a difference, would it?  
   
“Your reaction isn't allowing me an explanation,” he remarks. “This is why I kept it from you.”  
   
She stops so abruptly that the heels of her boots squeal on the asphalt, and then she's turning on him, grateful that her height is giving her the advantage of being able to loom over him. Her shadow swallows the details of his face, hiding them from sight. “This is what is wrong with you—you assume. Always assuming. You think you know me better than I know myself. Maybe you did, at some point. You think you know _everything_ .”  
   
He tips his sunglasses down with one thin finger, blinks at her inquisitively. “What are you trying to say?”  
   
“You don't understand. You never have. I _loved_ you. Do you know what that means?” she asks. A year, two years ago, she used to think that word had the same weight for everyone—that admitting to it would make someone else realize what it was, and what she was pledging to do when she said it aloud. She was wrong. About that, and so many other things. “I would have done anything for you. Anything. If you'd told me... if you'd _trusted_ me—I know I'd have found a way to reconcile it with... with what I felt. Because that is me. I have done terrible things. It wouldn't have been difficult to accept one more.”  
   
“You don't expect me to believe you'd have helped, do you? Or that you'd have just... let me do as I please?” he murmurs, the timber of his voice unchanged by emotion.  
   
“I'd have _tried_ ,” she says, and a muscle twitches in his cheek.  
   
“Tried _what_ ?”  
   
“I won't ever know,” Ren tells him. “Tried to stop you, tried to help you, tried to convince you to spend your time on other things... I won't ever know. It didn't happen.” She shakes her head, even as she repeats herself. “You don't understand, you don't _understand_ . I thought you did, or that you could. I can't ask you to understand because you are incapable, and that is unfair. How could I expect someone who doesn't trust himself to trust _me_ ? Someone who can't love to love me? It's impossible.”  
   
“You're assuming,” he says—that muscle in his jaw tightens again. “I was under the impression you disliked anyone who did that.”  
   
“I'm not required to like myself,” she snaps. “I don't need to assume when you've told me everything important about your own nature by keeping silent.” She steps back from him, feeling the anger and bitterness—the sickness—rise in her. “Enjoy your walk back to HySy. The weather is quite lovely this time of year.”  
   
For the second time this month, she leaves him behind.  
   
And he lets her go.

 

 

…

 

 

“Did you know Hinami's gone to Aogiri?”  
   
Nori snorts, and a puff of smoke rushes out of her mouth. “Always knew she had some sense.”  
   
“She's grown,” Ren remarks, tilting her head back to look at the sky. “Has Ayato eating out of the palm of her hand.”  
   
“Good,” Nori mutters. She takes another drag from her cigarette. The client waiting for her inside is, thankfully, rather patient, so she doesn't feel any lingering guilt about her smoke break including Ren and small-talk. Even ghoul hands can get cramped from time to time. “Kid needs to listen to someone before he gets his pretty little eyes ripped out.”  
   
“I wouldn't worry,” Ren says. The cloud on the far left side of the sky by the hair salon down the street looks strikingly similar to a bunny. “She's very shrewd for her age. And he's calmed down quite a bit—though he's a little... oblivious.”  
   
Another disbelieving snort. “Who's worried? I just don't want anything to fuck up Hinami's life again.”  
   
A tiny smile creases Ren's lips. “That's... more or less the same thing, you know.”  
   
“Shut up. Besides, _oblivious_ ? Pot, meet kettle. You wouldn't know subtext if it socked you in the face.”  
   
“How do you know I'm not just feigning in order to watch your wonderful reactions?”  
   
“No one can pretend the kind of surprise _you_ displayed when I told you that, yes, it _is_ actually possible to get off on your own.”  
   
“Sexual self-expression was not at the top of my priority list in the facility,” Ren says, poker-faced. “I didn't even know what I looked like.”  
   
“You _had_ to kill it.”  
   
“Always.”  
   
“So how's your new toy behaving for you?” Nori asks, glancing at the camera sitting on Ren's lap.  
   
“You mean the one that was left unannounced on my desk without any note or receipt?”  
   
“Yes, that one,” she says. She puffs a cloud of smoke in Ren's direction, disappointed when her friend has no visible reaction. She doesn't know why she tries, anyway, Ren may as well be an automaton. “Typically, people call those things _presents_ .”  
   
“It's beautiful,” Ren murmurs, her fingers tightening around the—rather pricey—Nikon camera. “You spoil me too much.”  
   
“Only because I want to.”  
   
“How can I—”  
   
“Repay me? By taking cool photos. And not moping.”  
   
“I will. I promise.”  
   
“Good. That's it, then.” Nori flicks the stub of her cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushes it under the toe of her boot, listening to it sizzling against the rubber. “I should probably get back to it. Can't let Shiki sit there buck-ass naked _all_ day.”  
   
“That would truly be a disaster,” Ren agrees. “Hey, hey. Before you go...”  
   
Nori turns to Ren, stopping herself from getting up. She only manages a confused “What—” when Ren presses a soft kiss to her cheek. “ _Why_ are we making this a habit?!”  
   
Ren laughs. “Because it unsettles you. Anyway, Shuu has you all to himself now. I can't help but be a little jealous.”  
   
Nori rubs at her cheek with her wrist and frowns. “Keep talking like that and people will think we're involved or something.”  
   
“Ah, well, that may solve a few of my problems,” Ren admits, and sort of regrets doing so, because Nori goes completely still. “No, no, I'll tell you about it later. Go back to work.”  
   
Nori considers that for a second, and her frown becomes just a little darker. “You swear?”  
   
“On my new, lovely camera,” Ren says. “Go.”  
   
Nori shoves her cigarette packet into her pocket. “Later. I'm going to hold you to it.”  
   
“You do that.”

 

 

…

 

 

The corkboard beside Ren's bed slowly fills with pictures. Pieces of life—things she sees through the lens of a gift she falls asleep next to every night, a patchwork of moments she wants to keep to herself forever. She remembers everything, but others don't. Time to share, is what she told Nori.  
   
“This had better be clean,” Nori grouses as she lies down on the fluffy carpet.  
   
“I vacuumed yesterday,” Ren assures her.  
   
“Hm,” Nori replies helpfully, and she stares at the dark ceiling expectantly. “So... why am I playing possum down here again?”  
   
“You'll see.”  
   
Ren leans over and switches on the lamp on her desk, and suddenly every available surface in the bedroom is flooded with the shadows of stars, points of light, winking and glittering like jewels caught in the sun. She shuffles over to her friend and lies down beside her, the bunched-up fabric of her hoodie cushioning her head as she leans it back, fingers curling in the rug's fuzz. Nori turns to look at her, and for a moment, Nori's struck by the quiet delight in Ren's eyes—her hair is dark enough for the so-called stars to reflect, giving her a heavenly crown. It's amazing that even after everything, she can manage a look like that.  
   
“I made some money,” Ren says in a low voice, like she's afraid to disturb the peace in the room. “Because someone online liked my pictures... they asked me if I could put some prints up, so I did. The antique store nearby had a sale over the weekend, and this lamp was in the corner. I thought it'd be nice. To be able to look at the stars, since Tokyo doesn't let us.”  
   
Nori turns her attention back to the sight of the constellations making gentle rotations over the walls and ceiling. “It's pretty.”  
   
The companionable silence continues until Ren tilts her head enough to rest on Nori's shoulder, though the pads of the jacket Nori's wearing dig into her cheeks.  
   
“I missed you,” she says. “When I was gone.”  
   
Nori makes a grumbling sound. “Good.”  
   
“I won't leave ever again.”  
   
“ _Good_ .”  
   
“Am I forgiven? For going?”  
   
“...Maybe. We may have to go on another few hunts. Just so you can make it up to me.”  
   
Ren laughs. “I think I can manage that.”

 


End file.
